





































































































































































































































































































































THE MYSTERY STORIES OF 

J. S. FLETCHER 

“Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot, and he never 
goes beyond the bounds of reason in its procedure 
and development. He, moreover, can write the 
English language as a vital means to the end both 
of narrative and description, and he never fails to 
show that he is its master. It is therefore a pleasure 
to read his stories, not merely for their entertaining 
qualities, but also for the agreeable appeal of their 
manner and their style.” 

Boston Evening Transcript, 

The Charing Cross Mystery- 
Rippling Ruby 
The Safety Pin 


THE SAFETY PIN 


j. 


BY 


I 

S. FLETCHER 


AUTHOR OF 

“THE CHARING CROSS MYSTERY,” “RIPPLING RUBY,” ETC 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

Ubc fnticfeerbocfeer press 

1924 




Made 



Copyright, 1924 
by 

J. S. Fletcher ^ 



IClA777343 t 

/yx$ 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I.—The Thirteenth Client . H • 3 

II.—What About the Bed? . . . 17 

III. —The Sand-Pit. 30 

IV. —The Safety Pin. 44 

V.—The Picture Post-Card ... 58 

VI. —The Opportune Moment ... 71 

VII.— The Creviced Wall .... 85 

VIII.—Miss Pretty's Way .... 99 

IX. —Birds of a Feather . . . ,112 

X. —Turn to the Ladies .... 126 

XI. —The Gold Watch .... 140 

XII. —Arrested. 154 

XIII. —Still Open.167 

XIV. —Which Gold Mine? .... 181 

XV. —The Uncurtained Window . . 195 

XVI. —Discoveries and Ambitions • . 209 

XVII. —The Wood and the Orchard , . 223 






VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XVIII.— Green Eyes.237 

XIX.— The Man Who Got Out . . .250 

XX. —Coil Within Coil .... 263 

XXI. —Bartlett’s Hearthrug . . . 276 

XXII. —Checkmate. 289 

XXIII. —Mellapont’s Exhibit . . . 303 

XXIV. — Tpie Art of Arrangement . . 316 

XXV. —The Green Bay Tree . . . 329 




4 



■A 


THE SAFETY PIN 




































PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS 


James Deane: 

Cynthia Pretty: 

Mrs. Champernowne : 

Mr. Alfred : 

John Hackdale: 

Simmons Hackdale: 

Francis Shelmore: 

Mark Ebbitt: 

William Belling : 

Charles Kight: 

Jane Pratt: 

Sir Reville Chelderstone: 

Louis Mellapont : 

Mary Sanders : 

Thomas Bywater: 

James Bartlett: 

Swilford Swale: 


formerly James Arradeane, 
civil Engineer. 

his ward and partner in a 
Cornish tin mine. 

Mayor of Southernstowe; 
Arradeane’s deserted wife. 

her brother. 

under-manager of Mrs. 
Champernowne’s business. 

his younger brother; clerk to 
Francis Shelmore. 
a young solicitor. 

manager of Southernstowe 
Picture-House. 

landlord of the Chancellor 
Hotel, Southernstowe. 

night-porter at the Chancellor. 

parlour-maid at Mrs. Champ¬ 
ernowne’s. 

elderly baronet, engaged to 
Mrs. Champernowne. 

Superintendent of police at 
Southernstowe. 

chambermaid at the Chan¬ 
cellor. 

manager at Champernowne’s 
Stores. 

loafer and ne’er-do-well. 

broken-down solicitor’s clerk 
at Normansholt. 


THE SAFETY PIN 

CHAPTER I 

THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT 

QHELMORE, then three and twenty years old, 
^ had been in practice as a solicitor for precisely 
six months, and, probably because he had set up in 
his own native city of Southernstowe, the end of 
that period found him with exactly twelve clients on 
his roll. His line was the eminently safe one of 
conveyancing, and the clients were profitable ones; 
he knew enough of his profession to know that his 
first half-year’s experience was satisfactory and 
promising. Another fledgling, lower down the 
street, a former fellow-articled clerk, admitted at the 
same time as himself, who had gone in for police- 
court practice, was doubtless having livelier times, 
but not making so much substantial gain; his office 
perhaps, was more crowded, but Shelmore preferred 
the dignified quiet of his own, wherein he and his 


3 


4 


THE SAFETY PIN 


clients talked of nothing less important than the 
transference or acquisition of real estate. 

In a youthful fashion he was somewhat proud of 
that office. At the street door there was a beautiful, 
highly polished brass plate, engraved in the very best 
of taste: Francis D. Shelmore. Solicitor. At the 
head of the stair leading up from it there was a 
smaller one, similarly inscribed, on an oak door: 
within that door, in the dark room liberally provided 
with all the proper show of papers, parchments, and 
japanned tin boxes, sat Shelmore’s one clerk, an 
astute, sharp-eyed, precocious youth named Simmons 
Hackdale; within an inner door, duly covered with 
green baize, sat Shelmore himself, in a private office 
very neatly and tastefully furnished and ornamented. 

Whenever one of the twelve clients came, Shel¬ 
more was always busy, and the client was kept wait¬ 
ing a little, the time of waiting being adjusted by 
the clerk in accordance with his own estimate of the 
client’s value and importance. But in plain truth 
Shelmore had a lot of time on his hands, and it was 
a good deal to his credit that he spent some of it in 
improving his own knowledge of law, and some in 
giving a gratuitous course of legal education to his 
—unarticled—clerk. 

Shelmore, having been a bit of a precisian since 
boyhood, kept exact hours. He arrived at the office 


THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT 


5 


at exactly ten minutes to ten every morning; at ten 
minutes to five every afternoon he prepared to leave 
it. He was preparing to leave it now—a certain 
Wednesday afternoon in the last week of what had 
been an unusually fine September. He had tidied up 
his desk and put away his books and assumed his 
hat and overcoat; his umbrella, tightly rolled, stood 
ready to his hand; close by it lay the Times, neatly 
folded, to be carried home to his aunt, Miss Olivia 
Chauncey, with whom he lived, in an old-fashioned 
house in the oldest part of Southernstowe. He stood 
by the window, fitting on his gloves with meticulous 
precision; thus engaged, he looked out on the scene 
beneath and in front; he had gone through that per¬ 
formance every afternoon for six months; it would 
not have disconcerted him if he had been assured 
by some infallible prophet that he would go through 
it every afternoon for many and many a long year 
to come. It was all part of what he wished and 
liked—a well-ordered, calm, systematic, life-routine, 
in which to-morrow should be as to-day. 

Yet, at that very moment, had Shelmore but 
known it, things were stirring close by, which were 
not according to any routine of his, and were going 
to break in upon the regularity of his daily life. As 
he stood there, looking unemotionally out of the 
window, he saw something which, if it did not 


6 


THE SAFETY PIN 


exactly excite him, at any rate interested him. The 
block in which his office was situate was a corner 
one. It commanded views of a good bit of the 
centre of the old city, and in particular a full pros¬ 
pect of the front of the ancient Chancellor Hotel. 
And what interested Shelmore was the sudden ap¬ 
pearance of a girl at the entrance of the courtyard 
of the Chancellor—a girl who for a second or two 
stood on the curb, looking doubtfully and enquiring¬ 
ly around, as people look at unfamiliar things and 
sceries. She was a tallish girl; she was slim and 
willowy; he had a convinced idea that she was young 
and pretty; she was smartly dressed; she was a 
stranger. He wondered about her without knowing 
why he wondered: then, as he saw her look round 
again, hesitate, and suddenly cross the street in his 
direction, he formulated a theory. 

“She’s in some perplexity,” mused Shelmore. 
“Wants to know something.” 

The girl disappeared from view amongst the folk 
on the sidewalks, and Shelmore, the last finger of his 
gloves being adjusted, picked up the neatly rolled 
umbrella and the equally neatly folded Times, and 
prepared to quit the scene of his daily labour. But 
before he had opened the green baize door, he 
heard voices in the clerk’s room. He paused: the 
green baize door opened, and Simmons Hackdale’s 


THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT 7 

sharp-eyed face appeared and his hand held out a 
card. 

“Young lady,” said Simmons, laconically. 
“Wants to consult you.” 

Shelmore took the card mechanically and stared 
at the neat script. Of course this was the girl he 
had just seen from his window. And this that he 
was staring at would be her name —Miss Cynthia 
Pretty, St. Meliofs, Camborne. Camborne!—Why 
Camborne was a good two or three hundred miles 
away, in Cornwall! What ... he suddenly looked 
up, nodded at his clerk, and drawing off his gloves 
and removing his hat, turned to his desk, as to a* 
refuge. But being there again, his eyes went to the 
door . , . 

He got a general impression of Miss Cynthia 
Pretty as Simmons Hackdale showed her in. She 
was tallish, and she was slim and willowy, as he had 
thought at first, and she was undeniably attractive. 
He was not sure whether her hair was gold—deep 
gold—or whether it wasn’t a bit reddish; he was 
uncertain, too, about her eyes, whether they were 
blue or whether they were violet—anyway, the lot 
of her, put together, lighted up the office. And she 
was young—perhaps nineteen, perhaps twenty; he 
couldn’t tell; certainly she was very young. And 
suddenly he felt very young—and a little small 


8 


THE SAFETY PIN 


himself. For at sight of him, Miss Cynthia Pretty 
let out an involuntary exclamation. 

“Oh!” she said, pausing between the door and the 
desk. “Are—are you the Mr. Shelmore whose name 
is on the door, downstairs? You are? Oh! Well, 
you look so awfully young to be a solicitor. And it’s 
a solicitor I want.” 

“Perhaps Pm older than I look,” answered Shel¬ 
more, recovering his wits. “And I assure you I’m 
very wise! Will you sit down and tell me-” 

His client dropped into the easy chair to which he 
pointed, and let her hands fall together in her lap. 
She gave him another critical inspection. 

“You look a bit clever,” she said. “And anyway 
you’re a man and a lawyer, and that’s what I want. 
I’m in a mess, Mr. Shelmore!—at least, I don’t know 
what to do. As you see from my card, my name’s 
Pretty—Cynthia Pretty. I live near Camborne, in 
Cornwall. I’m half-proprietor of a famous tin mine 
there. The other half belongs to my partner, Mr. 
James Deane. Mr. Deane is also my guardian and 
trustee and all that sort of thing, under my. father’s 
will, because, you see, I’m not yet of age—I’m only 
nineteen. I’m telling you this as a sort of prelim¬ 
inary to the really important business. Well, that’s 
just this—Mr. Deane and I have lately been travel¬ 
ling about. Not together—separately. He’s been 



THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT 


9 


in the North of England—he’s fond of old places; 
antiquities and so on. I’ve been staying with an old 
school friend at Bath. Mr. Deane and I arranged 
to meet here, at the Chancellor Hotel, Southern- 
stowe, to-day—this afternoon, to be exact. We 
were to stay here a few days, to look round; then 
we were going on to Dover, and to the Continent— 
Holland and Belgium, and perhaps Germany. Well, 
I got here, not half-an-hour ago, from Bath, with all 
my luggage, and drove straight to the Chancellor. 
They’d got a room booked for me right enough— 
Mr. Deane booked it when he arrived here on Mon¬ 
day—that’s day before yesterday. But Mr. Deane 
himself isn’t there!—he’s clean disappeared!” 

“Disappeared!” exclaimed Shelmore. “How? 
Why?” 

“Don’t ask me,” replied his caller. “I don’t know! 
That’s what the girl clerk in the office, across there, 
says. The landlord wasn’t in, and I couldn’t get 
much out of her—she isn’t very brilliant or illumin¬ 
ating. But that’s what she says—that Mr. Deane 
came there on Monday, some time, and disappeared 
mysteriously during Monday night, and they’ve 
never seen him since. And—and I thought I’d bet¬ 
ter consult somebody at once, and so I came out and 
looked about for a solicitor, and I saw your name, 
and—well, that’s just where it is.” 


IO 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“How old is Mr. Deane ?” asked Shelmore. 

“Sixty-three last June,” answered Miss Pretty. 

“Any reason why he should disappear?” 

“Goodness, no! What reason should there be ?” 

“Not knowing him, I can’t say. Any financial 
reasons ?” 

“Mr. Deane’s a wealthy man. He and I, as part¬ 
ners, are both wealthy.” 

“Any domestic troubles, now? Is Mr. Deane 
married?” 

“He’s a widower. His wife died when I was a 
little girl.” 

“Any sons or daughters ?” 

“He’s neither. I’ve heard him say that he hasn’t 
a relative in the world.” 

“A contented sort of man?—No worries?” 

“I should say, having known him all my life, that 
Mr. Deane hadn’t a care or a trouble. He’s a very 
sunny-natured, bright-tempered man.” 

“And you can’t think of any reasons whatever 
why he should disappear?” 

“Not one! Not the ghost of a reason! I know 
he was looking forward awfully keenly to this tour 
on the Continent. And, the last letter I had from 
him—here, in my bag—he promised faithfully to 
be waiting for me at the Chancellor to-day at four 
o’clock. He’s the sort of man who’s most punctil- 


THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT 


ii 


ious about appointments. And I’m just certain, Mr. 
Shelmore—there’s something wrong.” 

Shelmore picked up his hat. 

“I’ll go across with you to the Chancellor, Miss 
Pretty,” he said. “I know Belling, the landlord— 
we’d better see him at once.” 

“He was out when I was there,” remarked Miss 
Pretty. “And I don’t see what he can know about 
it any more than that Mr. Deane’s not there since 
Monday night.” 

“Mr. Deane may have left a message with him 
of which the girl in the office knows nothing,” sug¬ 
gested Shelmore. “Anyway, Belling’s the man— 
and there he is just going in.” 

He led his new client through the courtyard of 
the old hotel, and past the office to a private room, 
wherein the landlord, a cheery-faced, middle-aged 
man, was just taking off his hat and overcoat. He 
made Miss Pretty a polite bow and gave Shelmore a 
comprehending nod. 

“I’ve just heard of Miss Pretty’s arrival and her 
enquiries about Mr. Deane,” he said, drawing chairs 
forward for his visitors. “I see you’ve not been 
long in seeking legal advice, miss!—but let’s hope 
there’s no need for that. Still, it’s a fact, Mr. 
Shelmore, I don’t know anything about Mr. Deane. 
He’s not here—and I don’t know where he is.” 


12 


THE SAFETY PIN 


"Just tell me what you do know,” replied Sheh 
more. "Miss Pretty is naturally anxious about him 
—she’s afraid something may have happened.” 

"Well, sir, Mr. Deane looked to me the sort of 
man who could very well look after himself,” an¬ 
swered the landlord, as he took a seat opposite his 
callers. "But I’ll tell you everything I know. Mr. 
Deane arrived here, from London, I understood, on 
Monday afternoon, about four o’clock. He booked 
a room for himself—number seven. Then he booked 
a room for his ward, Miss Pretty, who, he said, 
would be here on Wednesday—number eleven. 
Here, of course, is Miss Pretty, and the room is all 
ready for her. But where’s her guardian? Well, 
all I can tell is this:—Mr. Deane’s luggage was taken 
up to his room. He went up there himself, and 
had some tea sent up. He came down to dinner at 
seven o’clock, and dined—in just the usual fashion. 
After dinner, he came to me in the bar-parlour and 
asked if there was any particular amusement in the 
place. I told him we’d just opened a new Picture- 
House, the first thing of its kind ever known in 
Southernstowe, and that it was well worth seeing. 
He said he’d go. He went. He came back about 
ten o’clock, or a little after. He asked me to join 
him in a drink. He had a whisky and soda in this 
very room—Mr. Deane sat in that very chair you’re 


THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT 


13 


in, Mr. Shelmore. We talked about the Picture- 
House, and the money there was in that industry 
nowadays. Then he observed that he d seen a very 
handsome lady at the Picture-House, who occupied 
what, he said, was evidently a place of honour, and 
seemed to be some local celebrity. I told him that 
that would be Mrs. Champernowne, the Mayor of 
Southemstowe. He was much interested in that. He 
said that though he’d heard of ladies being mayors be¬ 
fore, he’d never actually seen one in office. I told him 
that Mrs. Champernowne was a very smart, clever 
woman, proprietress of one of the biggest businesses 
in the city, that since her coming to Southernstowe 
twenty-odd years ago, she’d always taken a vast 
interest in civic affairs, and that this was her second 
year of office as Chief Magistrate. We talked a 
while about women’s share in politics and municipal 
life, and then about eleven o’clock, he said he’d get 
to bed. We said good-night at the foot of the stairs 
—and that, Mr. Shelmore, was the very last I saw 
of him! Never seen, nor heard of him since!” 

“But—your people?” suggested Shelmore. 

“Ah, to be sure!” asserted Belling. “The cham¬ 
bermaid—she saw him last.” 

“Under what circumstances?” enquired Shelmore. 

“Well,” replied the landlord, “a few minutes— 
perhaps ten minutes or a quarter of an hour after 


H 


THE SAFETY PIN 


he’d gone upstairs, he rang the bell for her, and 
asked for a glass of hot milk. She came down and 
got it for him; when she went back with it, Mr. 
Deane, according to what she told me next morn¬ 
ing, was in his pyjamas and dressing-gown, sitting 
in an easy chair and reading a book. He asked her 
to bring him some China tea and a dry biscuit at 
seven o’clock sharp next morning. She bade him 
good-night and went away, leaving him there sip¬ 
ping his hot milk, and reading his book—and there 
you are!” 

‘There he was—late on Monday night—anyway,” 
remarked Shelmore. “Well—but let’s get to seven 
o’clock, Tuesday morning. What about that?” 

“Seven o’clock Tuesday morning, the chamber¬ 
maid took up the tea and biscuits,” continued Bel¬ 
ling. “There was no response to her knock, so she 
went into the room. There was no one there. She 
thought Mr. Deane had gone to the bathroom, so 
she set down the tea and went away. But presently 
she took hot water there. Still he wasn’t there. 
And—we’ve never seen or heard of him since. As 
I said before, the last person who ever saw him in 
this house was the chambermaid, late on Monday 
night, when, apparently, he was about to get into 
bed—ready for bed, anyway!” 

“Did the chambermaid notice if the bed had been 


THE THIRTEENTH CLIENT 


15 


slept in?” enquired Shelmore. “I mean—on Tues¬ 
day morning?” 

“Oh, yes! I asked her about that. It had. Cer¬ 
tainly it had—I went up there myself afterwards 
and saw that it had.” 

Shelmore glanced at Miss Pretty. She was lis¬ 
tening intently to the conversation, and already a 
puzzled look was fixing itself on her face. Sud¬ 
denly she put a question to Belling, in prompt direct 
fashion. 

“When did you first miss my guardian?” she 
asked. 

Belling gave Shelmore a smile which seemed to 
suggest that a man would more readily understand 
the situation than a woman. 

“Well, miss,” he replied, turning to his questioner, 
“probably not until the morning was well advanced. 
We had a good many guests in the house yesterday 
morning, and I was very busy. It was, I should say, 
about eleven o’clock before it suddenly struck me 
that I hadn’t seen Mr. Deane about. Then I made 
enquiry of the chambermaid, and heard all that I ve 
told you. She, of course, thought the gentleman had 
risen early and gone out for a walk before break¬ 
fast—so many gentlemen do.” 

“That means that his clothes had gone with 
him!” said Miss Pretty, sharply. “He wouldn’t go 


16 THE SAFETY PJN 

out in his pyjamas! But—did no one see him go 
out?” 

“Yes,” observed Shelmore, rising from his chair, 
“that’s it!—did no one see him go out? Because 
—he must have gone out between last thing at night 
and first thing next morning. But there’s only one 
thing to do. Belling—we shall have to consult with 
the police. I see your telephone’s in the corner. 
You don’t mind if I ring up the City Hall? There’s 
no time to be lost in an affair of this sort.” 

He crossed over to the telephone . . . within a 
couple of minutes he turned to his companions. 
“That’s all right,” he said. “Mellapont’s coming 
over himself—Superintendent Mellapont.” 


CHAPTER II 


WHAT ABOUT THE BED? 


HERE presently strode into the landlord’s 



private parlour a man, who, had he been in 
plain clothes instead of in a smart, tightly-fitting, 
■black-braided blue uniform, would have been set 
down by nine people out of ten as a Life-Guardsman 
in mufti. A very tall, heavily-built man, with a 
keen, determined face, he turned a sharp, enquiring 
glance on Miss Cynthia Pretty in the same second 
wherein he nodded, half-carelessly, to Belling and 
Shelmore. 

“Evening, Mr. Belling—evening, Mr. Shelmore,” 
he began. “What’s all this ?—gentleman disap¬ 
peared from the Chancellor? This young lady’s 
guardian, eh? Yes?—well. What are the surface 
facts, now?” 

He dropped into a chair and sat, listening atten¬ 
tively, while Shelmore briefly explained matters. 
Then he turned alertly on the landlord. 

“Why didn’t you put yourself in communication 


i8 


THE SAFETY PIN 


with me, Mr. Belling, as soon as you missed this 
gentleman ?” he asked, with something of judicial 
severity in his tone. “It’s a good deal more than 
twenty-four hours since you missed him, and this is 
the first I’ve heard of it!” 

Belling spread out his hands and shook his head. 

“That’s all very well, Superintendent,” he retorted, 
“but if you’d been in this business as many years 
as I have, you’d know that hotel guests do strange 
things! The only notion I had at first was that this 
gentleman had gone out for a walk, gone further 
than he intended, got breakfast somewhere, and 
would turn up for lunch at the usual time. I took 
the trouble to go up and look at his room, and saw 
that the bed had been slept in—that confirmed my 
first idea. Then, later, when he didn’t come in, and 
as the day—yesterday—wore on, I got another idea 
—that Mr. Deane probably had friends in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, and had gone to breakfast with them, 
and was staying on for the day with them. As the 
day passed, I got more certain that the second was 
the right idea—friends. You see-” 

“A moment,” interrupted Mellapont. He turned 
to Miss Pretty. “Has your guardian any friends or 
acquaintances in Southernstowe or neighbourhood ?” 
he asked. “I mean—to your knowledge ?” 

“To my knowledge, no,” replied Miss Pretty. 



WHAT ABOUT THE BED? 


19 


“Indeed, I’m quite sure he hadn’t. Mr. Deane had 
never been in Southernstowe before Monday, and 
he knew no one here, nor near here. We talked a good 
deal about Southernstowe when we were making 
our holiday plans. He wanted to see the Cathedral, 
and the old walls, and the old churches and houses 
here—if he’d known anybody here or hereabouts 
I’m confident he’d have mentioned it. I know this— 
he’d never been in this part of England before.” 

“That seems to settle your second theory, Mr. 
Belling,” remarked Mellapont. “But you were about 
to observe-” 

“I was only going to say that Mr. Deane’s absence 
seemed to fit in with what he’d told me about his 
ward coming,” said Belling. “He’d said that Miss 
Pretty wouldn’t arrive until Wednesday afternoon. 
Very well!—he’d until Wednesday afternoon to do 
as he liked—no engagement that could keep him in. 
What more likely than that, if he had friends—I say 
if, mind you—in this place or neighbourhood he 
should stop with them until it was time to meet Miss 
Pretty. I think I was justified in thinking that. I’ve 
often had gentlemen come here, book a room, have 
their luggage put in it, stroll out to see somebody, 
and never come back for one, two, or three days. 
That’s what I thought about this case—gone off to 
see somebody, and stopped.” 



20 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Theory!” said Mellapont. “Now let’s get down 
to plain fact. The plain fact is that Mr. James 
Deane was in his bedroom, number seven, at the 
Chancellor Hotel at eleven o’clock on Monday night, 
and that at noon next morning he was gone. Now 
then, when did he go? Monday night or Tuesday 
morning? Mr. Belling!—let me have a word or 
two with the chambermaid we’ve heard about—fetch 
her in.” 

Belling left the room, and Mellapont, with a glance 
at the door, bent forward to Miss Pretty. 

“Would your guardian be likely to have a good 
deal of money on him?” he asked, quietly. “Ready 
money?” 

“Yes!” replied Miss Pretty, promptly. “He 
would! He’d have a lot on him. You see, we were 
going on the Continent. Besides, he always had a 
lot of money on him when he was travelling about 
—I’ve travelled with him before, often.” 

“And valuables, now? Watch, chain—that sort 
of thing?” suggested Mellapont. “Good jewellery?” 

“He’d a lot of very valuable jewellery on 
him,” said Miss Pretty, “it was rather a weakness 
of his.” 

“Hm!” murmured Mellapont, with a glance at 
Shelmore. “Ah!—it’s as well to know that much, 
eh, Mr. Shelmore? Monday, as you’ll remember, 


WHAT ABOUT THE BED? 


21 


was quarterly fair-day, and there are always some 
queer characters about, and they hang on in the 
place until late next morning. However—but here’s 
the chambermaid.” 

Belling came back, ushering in a young woman 
who looked curiously and enquiringly at the people 
awaiting her, but chiefly at the Superintendent, who, 
on his part, gave her a keen, appraising glance as if 
estimating her quality as a reliable witness. 

“Mary Sanders,” said the landlord. “She it was 
who saw Mr. Deane last.” 

“Just so,” assented Mellapont. “And that was— 
what time, Mary?” 

“Just after eleven o’clock, Monday night, sir,” 
replied the chambermaid, readily. 

“When you took him some hot milk, saw him 
evidently ready to go to bed, and got his order for 
tea at seven o’clock next morning?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And at seven o’clock next morning, when you 
went, he wasn’t there ?” 

“No, sir.” 

“So he never drank the tea you took up?” 

“Oh, no sir!—the tea was never touched.” 

Mellapont became silent and remained silent for 
a full minute. The chambermaid, a self-possessed, 
alert-looking young woman, watched him steadily. 


22 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Suddenly, he bent forward, looking hard at her, and 
whispered rather than spoke his next question. 

“What about the bed, Mary? What about the 
bed?” 

The chambermaid started and flushed a little. 

“What—what do you mean, sir?” 

“I mean—had the bed been slept in, Mary!—had 
the bed been slept in? Come, now, with your ex¬ 
perience as a chambermaid, eh? But—I see you’ve 
got some idea of your own on this very important 
point. Out with it, Mary.” 

The chambermaid smiled a little, glancing covertly 
at her master. 

“Well, sir,” she said. “I certainly did think 
something when the gentleman didn’t come in before 
breakfast, and I’d looked more closely round the 
room and more particularly at the bed. I think he’d 
got into bed, but he hadn’t stopped in bed! I think 
he’d got out again pretty quick.” 

Mellapont slapped his hands on his knees and 
looked slowly and significantly from Belling to Shel- 
more and from Shelmore to Miss Pretty. 

“She thinks he’d got in bed and had got out 
again pretty quick!” he said in a sort of dramatic 
stage-aside. “Ah! And what made you think that, 
Mary?” he went on, turning again to the chamber¬ 
maid. “You have reasons?” 


WHAT ABOUT THE BED? 


23 


“Well, sir, when I looked more closely at it, the 
bed didn’t look to me as if it had been slept in all 
night,” answered Mary. “There was just one dint 
in the top pillow. The sheets were quite straight 
and uncreased. It was just as if the gentleman had 
got into bed, bethought himself of something, got 
up again, and never gone back.” 

Mellapont slapped his knees again. 

“Admirable!” he exclaimed. “Admirable! Mr. 
Deane went to bed and immediately got up again! 
Now Mary, you’re evidently a girl who keeps her 
eyes open. When you took Mr. Deane his hot milk 
where did you set down your tray?” 

“On the dressing-table, sir, close by where he was 
sitting in an easy chair, reading.” 

“Did you notice anything on that dressing-table? 
You did, of course. What, now?” 

“Well, sir. I couldn’t help noticing—they were 
there in the middle. A gold watch and chain, a 
diamond pin, and some rings—diamond rings, I 
think.” 

“He wore two diamond rings—valuable,” mur¬ 
mured Miss Pretty. 

“Just so,” said Mellapont. “And now, Mary, 
were these things on the dressing-table when you 
went in next morning?” 

“Oh, no, sir!—there was nothing there! Except 


THE SAFETY PIN 


24 

brushes and combs and that sort of thing. No 
valuables, sir.” 

Mellapont turned and nodded two or three times 
at Shelmore. 

“Nothing could be plainer,” he said in a low, con¬ 
fidential voice. “Mr. Deane got up, dressed himself, 
even to the putting on of his jewellery, and went out 
—that night! Mary!” 

“Sir!” 

“I take it that you have charge of the corridor, 
or passage, or whatever it is, in which the bedroom 
number seven is situate?” 

“Yes, sir. It’s the first floor. There are six 
rooms—numbers three, five, seven on one side; 
four, six, eight on the other.” 

“What time did you go off duty that night?” 

“Usual time, sir—half-past-eleven.” 

“Now, then!—did you ever see Mr. Deane leave 
his room?” 

“No, sir—certainly not!” 

“Supposing he’d wanted anything after you went 
off duty—who’d he have got it from?” 

“Right, the night-porter, sir. Any bell from 
the bedrooms is answered after eleven-thirty by 
Right.” 

Mellapont turned to Belling with a wave of his 
hand. 


WHAT ABOUT THE BED? 


25 


“Now—Kight!” he commanded. “Kight!” 

Belling nodded to the chambermaid. 

“Send him here, Mary,” he said. “At once.” 

When the chambermaid had gone, silence fell in 
the private parlour. It was largely caused by the 
behaviour of Mellapont, who folded his arms across 
his broad chest, turned his face towards the ceiling, 
and fixing his eyes on some real or imaginary spot, 
seemed to lose himself in profound meditation. He 
only came to earth again when a stockily built man 
in a green apron entered the room and looked en¬ 
quiringly at Belling. 

“The Superintendent wants to ask you a question 
or two, Kight,” said the landlord. 

Mellapont turned on the night-porter—less 
critically than on the chambermaid. He put his first 
question with seeming carelessness. 

“You’re on duty from eleven-thirty to seven, 
aren’t you, Kight?” he asked. 

“No, sir! Eleven o’clock at night to eight o’clock 
in the morning.” 

“Half-an-hour’s difference one way and an hour’s 
the other, eh? All right!—anyway, you were on 
duty on Monday night ?” 

“As usual, sir.” 

“Do you know Mr. Deane—the gentleman in num¬ 
ber seven?” 


26 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Yes, sir. Saw him say good-night to Mr. Belling 
when he went upstairs Monday night.” 

“Did you ever see him come down again that 
night?” 

“I did not, sir.” 

“Nor early next morning?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Never saw him at all during the night?” 

“Never set eyes on the gentleman, sir, after I saw 
him go upstairs.” 

“Could he have come down and gone out without 
your seeing him?” 

“It’s hard to see how he could, sir. In fact, in an 
ordinary way, impossible.” 

“Why, now?—why impossible?” 

“Well, sir, the guv’nor there’ll understand. You 
see, this old courtyard outside makes a sort of main 
passage through the house, from front to back. 
There’s a front entrance to it, as you know, into the 
High Street; there’s a back entrance into Sepulchre 
Alley. Both entrances are closed at eleven o’clock, 
when I come on duty: it’s my first job to close them. 
Half-way up the courtyard I’ve a little room, the 
door of which is always open. If anybody wants 
to get in during the night—late travellers, motorists, 
cyclists, and such-like—they have to ring me up 
from outside. Same way, if anybody wanted to go 


WHAT ABOUT THE BED? 


27 

out, Td have to open a door for ’em. Though to 
be sure there is a way out without bothering me— 
if anybody knows it.” 

“Ah, there’s a way out without bothering you, is 
there, Kight?” said Mellapont. “And what’s that, 
pray?” 

“Well, sir, in our back entrance into Sepulchre 
Alley there’s a sort of wicket door in the big one. 
It’s just kept on the latch. Anybody inside the hotel 
can let himself out by that door. But—he couldn’t 
get in without ringing for me.” 

Mellapont turned to Shelmore with a convinced 
nod. 

“Mr. Deane let himself out by that door 1” he said. 
“Good! Now—when? Kight!” 

“Sir?” 

“On Monday night, between eleven o’clock, and 
up to Tuesday morning at eight o’clock, were you 
ever away from your little room in this courtyard? 
Gone away in any other part of the house?” 

“I was, sir—twice. I keep a supply of liquors in 
my room, sir, for night consumption. I took a 
whisky and soda up to number fifteen, second floor, 
at a quarter to twelve—gentleman had come in by a 
very late train. He kept me talking a few minutes.” 

“And the other occasion?” 

“I took a cup of coffee and some biscuits to num- 


28 


THE SAFETY PIN 


ber five at six o’clock in the morning, sir. That was 
a motoring gentleman, who wanted to be off early.” 

“And on both these occasions you’d be away up¬ 
stairs for a few minutes, eh?” 

“Only a few, sir.” 

“Still, it would be possible for anybody to come 
downstairs, unobserved, during those few minutes, 
and let himself out by that wicket-door into 
Sepulchre Alley?” 

“Possible, sir,” agreed Kight, with a grin, “but 
—not very probable. It would mean, anyway, that 
whoever did it knew the house, and the wicket-door, 
and Sepulchre Alley. And I understood that this 
gentleman was a total stranger.” 

Mellapont rose from his chair. 

“All the same,” he said, turning to Belling. “I’m 
convinced that Mr. Deane, after retiring on Mon¬ 
day night, immediately got up again, dressed, came 
down, and let himself out while Kight was in num¬ 
ber fifteen! The questions now are—where did he 
go, and where is he? That’s my job! I’m going to 
start on it straight off. Mr. Shelmore, you come 
with me to my office. Miss Pretty, let me advise 
you to settle down and get some dinner, and to be 
no more alarmed or anxious than’s natural—I’ll do 
my best. Now, Mr. Shelmore.” 

Shelmore only lingered a moment to tell Miss 


WHAT ABOUT THE BED? 


29 


Pretty that he would send his aunt, Miss Chauncey, 
to call on her that evening, and then followed Mella- 
pont out of the hotel. The Superintendent tapped 
his shoulder. 

“Mr. Shelmore!” he whispered. “Don't you be 
surprised if this turns out to be a bad case! Rob¬ 
bery, and maybe murder!—aye, murder! And I’m 
handicapped. As you know, owing to that big coal 
strike in South Wales, all our regular police have 
been dragged off there to help, and I’ve nothing but 
special constables at my disposal—civilians. How¬ 
ever, I must do what I can, and the first thing is to 
comb out the city for this unfortunate gentleman. 
Mr. Shelmore!—I smell murder!" 

With this dark prediction on his lips, he led Shel¬ 
more into the police-station beneath the ancient City 
Hall, and through a vaulted ante-room, where, all 
alone, a tall, athletic, smart-looking young man was 
just fastening in his sleeve the striped badge of a 
special constable. 


CHAPTER III 


THE SAND-PIT 

IV/lELLAPONT strode quickly across the room 
***“■ and gave its solitary occupant a hearty smack 
on the badged arm. 

‘The very man I most wanted to see at this mo¬ 
ment,” he exclaimed. “Come into my office!—come, 
both of you. You know Mr. Hackdale, Mr. Shel- 
more ?—Mr. Hackdale’s the most reliable of my 
specials—just the man for this job.” 

Shelmore knew John Hackdale well enough. He 
knew him as being under-manager at Champer- 
nowne’s Drapery Store, the big establishment owned 
by the clever woman who at that time was Mayor 
of Southernstowe: he knew him also as the elder 
brother of his own clerk, Simmons Hackdale. But 
he knew more of him—as did most natives of the 
city. He knew that John Hackdale and his brother 
Simmons had been left orphans when one was seven¬ 
teen and the other ten, unprovided for and practical¬ 
ly friendless, and that the elder, by his own unaided 
30 


THE SAND-PIT 


3 i 


efforts, had kept the two of them, clothing, feeding, 
and educating the younger until Simmons was old 
enough to do something for himself. He knew too, 
that John Hackdale, now a young man of twenty- 
six, had the reputation of being a pushing and an 
ambitious fellow, and that he was looked upon at 
Champernowne’s as the mainspring of the business, 
and as being its real controller, in spite of the fact 
that there was above him a nominal manager. 

“Of course I know Mr. Hackdale,” he answered, 
as they passed into the Superintendent’s office. “It 
would be odd if anybody didn’t know everybody in 
a place as small as Southernstowe, Superintendent.” 

“Ah, well, you see, I’m not a native!” said Mella- 
pont, with a shy laugh. “My two years here haven’t 
made me familiar with the smallness of the place, 
even yet. But now let’s tell Mr. Hackdale what’s 
occurred,—he’s the main man amongst my special 
constables, and he can talk to the rest. Just give 
me your close attention for five minutes, Mr. Hack- 
dale.” 

John Hackdale listened quietly while Mellapont 
told him the story which had been elaborated in the 
landlord’s parlour at the Chancellor. Shelmore 
watched him while he listened, and thought to him¬ 
self that John Hackdale was fitted for something 
better than a draper’s counter, however long and big 


32 


THE SAFETY PIN 


and wide that counter might be. Unlike his brother 
Simmons, who was meagre and sharp-featured, and 
had a good deal of the fox or ferret look about him, 
John was a tall, well-built man, handsome of face, 
and with an air of quiet reserve in eyes and lips 
that would have stood him in good stead, thought 
Shelmore, if he had gone in for professional work 
his own, for instance. He had the barrister look 
Shelmore mentally pictured him in a wig and gown. 
And that he had something of legal acumen was 
proved by his first remark. 

“What do you think of that, now?” asked Mella- 
pont, making an end of the story. “How’s it strike 
you?” 

Hackdale looked slowly from one man to the 
other. 

“It strikes me like this,” he answered. “What¬ 
ever the young lady may think, her guardian has 
been in Southemstowe before.” 

“Aye?—and what makes you think that now?” 
demanded Mellapont, eagerly. “What?” 

“Obvious!” said Hackdale. “He knew all about 
the wicket-door in the entrance to Sepulchre Alley. 
To my knowledge that wicket-door’s been there— 
well, ever since I was a youngster. When I first 
earned my living as a shop-boy, I’ve carried many 
a parcel into the Chancellor by that door.” 


THE SAND-PIT 


33 


“Good!” said Mellapont. “So you think-” 

“I think Mr. Deane knew Southernstowe, and 
somebody in Southernstowe,’’ replied Hackdale, 
“and that he took it into his head, suddenly, to go 
out and see that somebody, late as it was. That he 

never returned is a matter which-” 

He paused, glancing meaningly at his companions. 
“Well?” said Mellapont, sharply. “Well?” 
“Which needs closely enquiring into,” concluded 
Hackdale. He paused again, looking still more 
meaningly and narrowly at the Superintendent. “I 
suppose, as he was travelling about, he would have 
money on him—and valuables?” he suggested. 

“Lots!—according to all we’ve just heard,” as¬ 
serted Mellapont. 

“It was quarterly fair-day, Monday,” remarked 
Hackdale. “As you’re aware, a good many of the 
riff-raff—drovers, hangers-on, and the like—stop 
about town overnight, sleeping out, many of them. 
If Mr. Deane went out at midnight, say to some 

house on the outskirts-” 

“Just what I’ve been thinking!” exclaimed Mella¬ 
pont. “Well, the only thing is to search and enquire 
and make the thing public. There’s one advantage 
of being in a place as small as this—any rumour’ll be 
all over the spot in an hour. Make it known, Hack- 
dale—you too, Mr. Shelmore. Hackdale, I suppose 




34 


THE SAFETY PIN 


you’re going on your beat—north side of the city, 
yours, isn’t it? Drop the news wherever you go— 
somebody, surely, must have seen or heard some¬ 
thing of this man.” 

“I don’t know,” said Hackdale, doubtfully. 
“Ninety-nine out of every hundred of Southern- 
stowe people are in bed by ten o’clock. During this 
special constable business, I’ve scarcely met a soul in 
the streets after that hour.” 

He nodded to Shelmore and went out, pausing in 
the outer room to say a few words to a couple of 
fellow special constables who had just come in and 
were preparing for their voluntary duties. Then, 
leaving the police-station, he went out into the street 
and turned down a narrow lane that ran along the 
side of the City Hall. At the end of that lane there 
was a small square, set round with old, half-timbered 
houses; in one of these, a boarding-house, kept by 
two old maiden ladies, Hackdale lodged with his 
brother Simmons. He wanted to see Simmons now : 
Simmons was the likeliest means he knew of for 
noising anything abroad: Simmons, at a word, would 
spread the news of Deane’s strange disappearance 
all over Southernstowe in half-an-hour. 

Hackdale opened the door of the boarding-house 
and walked into a square, oak-wainscotted hall, 
lighted from the centre by a swinging lamp. Be- 


THE SAND-PIT 


35 


neath this lamp stood a man in immaculate evening 
dress, who was carefully brushing an opera hat. He 
was a tall, well-built man of sixty or thereabouts, 
who had been strikingly handsome in his time, but 
who now bore something of the appearance of a 
carefully-preserved and skilfully-patched-up ruin. 
This was Mark Ebbitt, whom Hackdale knew both 
as a fellow-lodger and as manager of the newly 
established Picture-House; he also knew that in his 
time Ebbitt had been an actor, and that his career 
had not proved over-successful; indeed, Hackdale 
remembered him, on his first coming to Southern- 
stowe, as having been in the down-at-heel and 
frayed-linen stage. But now he had blossomed out 
again, and as manager of a flourishing place of 
amusement was revelling once more in purple and 
fine linen. 

The two men nodded familiarly, and Hackdale 
paused on his way to his own sitting-room. 

“Heard any news?” he asked. 

“Not an atom, my boy!” replied Ebbitt. “Have 
you?” 

Hackdale told him of what he had just heard; 
Ebbitt, carefully adjusting the opera hat in front of 
a mirror that hung over the fireplace, listened with¬ 
out any great show of interest. 

“That must have been the stranger I noticed at 


36 


THE SAFETY PIN 


our Show on Monday night,” he remarked. “Tall- 
ish, Spanish, grey-bearded chap, in a brown tweed 
suit: I noticed, too, he’d got a damned fine diamond 
in his cravat! Um!—Well, if elderly gentlemen 
with jewels like that on ’em go walking abroad at 
midnight in country towns—Eh?” 

“Well, just mention it to anybody you come across 
to-night, will you?” suggested Hackdale. “Pub¬ 
licity-” 

“My boy, the whole thing’ll be all over the town 
before supper-time!” declared Ebbitt. “Lord bless 
you! if the poll-parrot upstairs took it into her head 
to fly out of the window, do you think all Southern- 
stowe wouldn’t know it in five minutes ? Publicity ? 
—trust country-town tongues for that!” 

He wrapped a white silk muffler round his throat, 
gave the opera hat an extra tilt over his right ear, 
and swaggered out, and Hackdale, opening a door 
on the left of the hall, walked into the parlour which 
he and his brother shared as a sitting-room. Sim¬ 
mons was there—the remains of his tea-supper be¬ 
fore him, but he himself deep in a big law-book, on 
either side of which he had firmly planted an elbow. 
From between the knuckles which pressed against 
his temples, he looked up at John. 

“Here’s a nice job for you, Sim,” said Hackdale. 
“Just suit you. You’re going out, of course?” 



THE SAND-PIT 37 

“For a bit,” answered Simmons, questioningly. 
“What’s up?” 

“This is up,” replied Hackdale. He sat down, 
keeping his hat and coat on, and told his brother 
all about it. “So, if you’re going to drop in at the 
club, mention it—mention it anywhere. Tell every¬ 
body you meet.” 

Simmons nodded. His sharp eyes grew thought¬ 
ful. 

“That would be the girl who came to Shelmore 
this afternoon, just as we were leaving,” he re¬ 
marked. “Shelmore went out with her. Name of 
Pretty—Miss Cynthia Pretty.” 

“Anything like her name?” asked the elder bro¬ 
ther. “Was she pretty?” 

“Top hole!” declared Simmons. “Swell, too. 
Card said she lived in Cornwall, but I’ll lay a fiver 
to a penny she didn’t get her clothes in those wilds! 
London make—from top to bottom.” 

“Good lad,” said Hackdale, approvingly. “Al¬ 
ways cultivate your power of observation, Sim, and 
you’ll do! Well—I’m off on my beat. See you at 
breakfast.” 

A small packet which he knew to contain sand¬ 
wiches, and a flask in which he had stored a supply 
of weak whisky and water, lay on a side-table; stow¬ 
ing these away in his pockets, Hackdale nodded 


38 THE SAFETY PIN 

to his brother and left the room. But instead of 
going out of the house by the front door, he went 
through a passage to the back-yard and there re¬ 
leased his dog, a pure-bred Airedale terrier, known 
to the neighbourhood as Martin; with this valuable 
assistant at his heels he turned back towards the 
City Hall, and went off towards that part of 
Southernstowe which was just then under his 
charge. 

Mellapont had reason when he spoke of the small¬ 
ness of the city whose police arrangements he super¬ 
intended. So old that its people boasted of it as 
being the oldest settled town in England; famous 
as possessing one of the most ancient of English 
cathedrals: interesting and notable to all lovers of 
archaeology, Southernstowe was utterly insignifi¬ 
cant in point of size. A square half-mile held 
all there was of it, within its ancient and still 
well-preserved walls, at any rate: you could walk 
in and out and all around it within an hour. It had 
but three streets; one High Street, ran across it from 
east to west; another, North Bar, ran from High 
Street to the walls on the northward; and the third, 
South Bar, ran from the centre of the town to the 
southern extremity. Out of these streets, mean¬ 
dered, to be sure, almost aimlessly, various alleys, 
courts, and passages, but they were so narrow, and 


THE SAND-PIT 


39 


their entrances so often veiled by modern frontages, 
that only the inhabitants knew of them; in many 
cases they had no names. 

Hackdale’s beat lay on the north side of the city. 
Out there, once the walls were passed, there was 
a district of residential houses—mansions and villas 
standing in private grounds, with open country 
beyond. The principal people of the place lived up 
there—professional men, merchants, well-to-do 
tradesmen. His own employer, Mrs. Sophia Cham- 
pernowne, the Mayor, had a big place that way, 
Ashenhurst House, where she lived with her brother, 
a queer, apparently shiftless, do-nothing-at-all sort 
of amiable, well-dressed person, commonly known 
as Mr. Alfred. What Mr. Alfred’s surname was, 
neither Hackdale, nor anybody else knew—he was 
just Mr. Alfred. All that anybody knew about him 
was that when Mrs. Champernowne first came to 
Southernstowe, twenty years before, and bought up 
a decaying business which she speedily transformed 
into a first-class, up-to-date equal-to-London-and- 
Paris drapery store, Mr. Alfred came with her, and 
had been with her, as parasite or satellite, ever since. 

Hackdale was not very far from the gates of 
Ashenhurst House when a man suddenly came 
across the road and hailed him. In the light of a 
neighbouring lamp he recognised the man as one 


40 


THE SAFETY PIN 


James Bartlett, a well-known figure in Southem- 
stowe. Bartlett had been a man of substance in his 
time, but a fatal passion for betting, on one hand, 
and for strong drink, on the other, had reduced him 
to the position of a loafer who lived from hand to 
mouth. But loafer and ne’er-do-well though he was, 
he had a confident manner and a ready tongue, and 
he lost no time in saying his say, as he accosted John 
Hackdale under the lamp. 

“Hullo, Mr. Hackdale,” he said, familiarly. 
“Doing a bit more special constabling, eh?—Well I 
daresay you’ll do it as well as the regular police, 
what ? But what’s this I hear, Mr. Hackdale, about 
a gentleman being missing from the Chancellor? 
It is so, is it?—aye, well maybe I could tell a bit 
about that.” 

Hackdale, who would not have wasted one minute 
of his time on Bartlett in broad daylight in a 
Southemstowe street, had no objection to talking to 
him in a lonely place under cover of partial dark¬ 
ness. He whistled his dog to him and halted. 

“What could you tell?” he asked, half-contempt¬ 
uously. 

“Well, I don’t mind telling you,” answered Bart¬ 
lett, with a marked emphasis on the personal pro¬ 
noun. “You’re a cautious young fellow, and can 
keep your tongue still—if need be: I’m not a fool. 



THE SAND-PIT 


4i 


myself, Mr. Hackdale. But it’s this—I was out, latish 
Monday night, up this way—been to see somebody; 
never mind who. And just as I got within North 
Bar about midnight, I met a strange gentleman. 
Tallish, thinnish man, grey beard—very well 
dressed; I could see that. He stopped me—wanted 
to know something. Eh, Mr. Hackdale ?” 

“What did he want to know?” asked Hackdale, 
vaguely convinced that something important, some¬ 
thing which would, somehow, affect himself, was 
coming out. “What?” 

Bartlett tapped the special constable’s arm, and 
lowered his voice to a whisper. 

“He wanted to know where Ashenhurst House, 
Mrs. Champernowne’s was!” he answered. “Just 
that!” 

Hackdale remained silent. It was Deane, without 
doubt, that Bartlett was talking of. What did Deane 
—a stranger—want with Mrs. Champernowne, at 
midnight? However. . . . 

“Did you tell him ?” he asked suddenly. 

“I did! Why not?” 

“Did he go that way?” 

“Straight ahead!—after giving me five shillings.” 

There was another silence, during which Hackdale 
did some hard and quick thinking. Bartlett broke 
it. 


42 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“I reckon that would be the missing gentleman, 
Mr. Hackdale! Went up this way, seeking for Mrs. 
Champernowne—and has never been seen since! 
Queer!” 

Hackdale looked round. There was nobody with¬ 
in sight or hearing on that quiet road. He touched 
Bartlett’s shoulder. 

“Have you mentioned this to anybody?” he 
asked. “You haven’t?—to a soul? Look here!— 
don’t! There’s some mystery, and—well, it won’t 
do to have Mrs. Champernowne’s name mixed up 
with it. Keep it to yourself, Bartlett, until I see 
you again. And—here!” 

He had loose money in his pocket—gold, silver— 
and scarcely realising what he was doing, he pulled 
it out and dropped it into Bartlett’s ready palm. 
Bartlett made haste to put it away with that hand, 
while he squeezed Hackdale’s arm with the other. 

“Mum is the word, Mr. Hackdale!” he whispered. 
“I’m your man, sir! Not a word. . . 

He shot off suddenly into the gloom, and Hack- 
dale, after staring in that direction for a second or 
two went slowly forward. He was dazed by what 
he had heard. What did it mean? He was near 
the grounds of Ashenhurst House by then, and he 
gazed at the lighted windows, wondering if any¬ 
body behind them knew . . . anything? 


THE SAND-PIT 


43 


He went along, past the gates, past the grounds, 
and down a narrow side lane that bounded Mrs. 
Champernowne’s tennis lawn and fruit orchard. 
And there, following his usual track, he turned into 
an old sand-pit, long disused and now thickly grown 
over with shrubs and vegetation, across which there 
was a short cut to another part of his beat. But 
Hackdale never took the short cut that night. The 
Airedale terrier, plunging in amongst the under¬ 
growth, began to growl and then to whine, and 
Hackdale, following him, suddenly stumbled on a 
man’s body . . . supine, motionless. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE SAFETY PIN 

fJACKDALE was essentially cool and calculat- 
'*■ ing in temperament and disposition, and 
when the first thrill of his discovery had spent itself, 
which it did very quickly, his natural calmness in 
dealing with a difficult situation came to the sur¬ 
face. He had no doubt whatever that the body 
lying at his feet was that of the man who had so 
mysteriously disappeared from his room at the 
Chancellor Hotel. He had no doubt, either, that 
the man was dead. So much, he knew, was cer¬ 
tain. And what was another, and to him a much 
more pertinent certainty, was that the man was 
lying dead in an unfrequented waste which lay with¬ 
in a hundred yards of Ashenhurst House—the pri¬ 
vate residence of Mrs. Champernowne. 

There was just sufficient light—twilight—left to 
see what Hackdale saw, but he had the means of 
more accurate vision in one of his pockets. Quietly 
and slowly, hushing the Airedale terrier with a 


44 


THE SAFETY PIN 


45 


gentle word or two, he produced an electric torch 
and turning its light on, stooped closely to the still 
figure. Dead, of course!—dead as a door-nail, he 
said to himself, using the hackneyed simile. And 
there, in a black and congealed pool in the sandy 
turf, was blood. One more look, a closer one, and 
he saw that the dead man had been shot through 
the head, from just behind the ear—there was a 
mark there. And not shot by himself, for neither 
of the outstretched hands grasped any weapon, nor 
did any weapon lie near. Murder!—sheer murder! 

Hackdale stood up, wondering when the murder 
had occurred. He himself had been past that very 
spot, about the same time, only the previous eve¬ 
ning, and had noticed nothing. But then, he re¬ 
flected, he had not had his dog with him. He 
would have passed the place, unsuspecting, to-night 
if it had not been for the dog. But—had the man 
been shot there, where he lay, or had his body been 
dragged or carried there from elsewhere? He held 
the electic torch to the ground, examining its sur¬ 
face. All around, save for small, insignificant 
patches, the flooring of the old sand-pit was thickly 
grown over with short, wiry grass, on which any 
footmarks were necessarily difficult to trace—Hack- 
dale saw none. Nor did he notice any disturbance 
of the bushes amongst which the body lay. But 


THE SAFETY PIN 


46 

they were very low, stunted bushes, there; it was 
quite probable that two people, wandering and 
strolling aimlessly about in that sand-pit in the 
darkness would never notice things that only grew 
knee-high and would not realise that they were off 
the irregular path along which Hackdale was mak¬ 
ing his short cut. And of course there had been 
two people—one was the murdered man lying at 
his feet; the other was the murderer. And—who 
was he? 

He turned back to the body, and without as 
much as laying a finger on it, held the electric torch 
still closer. This was the man, of course. A 
tallish, thinnish, grey-bearded man, in a suit of 
brown tweed, of smart cut—so he had been described 
to Hackdale, and there all the features of the 
description were. The face was pressed into the 
sandy turf; he saw little of that, and at the moment 
had no wish to see more: he wanted others, Mella- 
pont, in particular, to see everything as he himself 
had first seen it. He had some vague idea that 
when a dead body is found, no one should touch 
or interfere with it until the police have been called, 
and he was temperamentally strict in adherence to 
usage and custom. But suddenly, as he moved the 
electric torch to and fro above the inanimate figure, 
Hackdale saw something which, in that same in- 


THE SAFETY PIN 


47 

stant, he knew he would touch . . . and not only 
touch but make haste to secrete. 

That something was a safety pin—a curiously 
shaped, unusually made safety pin of bronze wire. 
It was pinned in the dead man’s tweed jacket, a 
little over the flapped pocket on the right hand side, 
and Hackdale saw at once how it came to be there. 
Either in passing through a fence, or getting over 
a fence, the dead man had caught his smart new 
jacket against a nail or some equally sharp pro¬ 
jection, and had got a long, irregular rent in it, 
extending for several inches through the outer 
cloth and the inner lining. And the rent had been 
fastened together with the safety pin at which 
Hackdale was now staring as he had never to his 
knowledge stared at anything in his life: the stare 
was accompanied by a jerky, involuntary exclama¬ 
tion. 

“Good God!— that?” 

Within the instant, and with a furtive glance 
round him, as though even in that solitude he feared 
observation, Hackdale had unfastened and with¬ 
drawn the safety pin from the dead man’s jacket 
and hidden it away in his purse. And that done 
he switched off his light, murmured a word to the 
Airedale terrier, and turned back to the path. Be¬ 
fore he had gone six yards he realised that he was 


THE SAFETY PIN 


48 

trembling all over—the coolness which he had felt 
at first had vanished at sight of the safety pin. 
But it had got to come back—he had got to be 
cooler than ever. Then he remembered the flask in 
his pocket; its contents were meant to last him for 
the whole of his night vigil, but now he swallowed 
them at a draught. That revived him, and with 
something between a sigh and a sardonic laugh he 
left the sand-pit and went off in the direction of 
Ashenhurst House. 

Mrs. Champernowne's residence stood in the 
midst of ornamental grounds—a fine, commodious, 
red-brick mansion, big enough for a large family; 
far too big, Hackdale had often thought, for a 
single woman, her brother, and half-a-dozen ser¬ 
vants. But Mrs. Champernowne, as Hackdale knew 
well enough, was a very rich woman, and could 
afford to do what she pleased; afford to keep up 
these fine gardens, and a couple of motor-cars, light 
the house with electricity, and surround herself, as 
she did, with every luxury. Yet, as he made his 
way up the asphalted drive to the front door, the 
contrast between the brilliantly lighted windows of 
the house and the darkness and solitude of the 
sand-pit struck him forcibly—he could not tell why. 
Here was light, warmth, life—there, a hundred 
yards away, coldness, death. Was there any link 


THE SAFETY PIN 


49 


between the house and the sand-pit, and if so ... „ 

His reflections were cut short by the opening of 
the door. A smart, young woman, spick and span 
in her black dress and coquettish cap and apron, 
glanced at him smilingly and demurely; Hackdale, 
who cultivated politeness as a business asset, 
touched his cap. 

‘‘Evening, Jennie,” he said, marvelling at the 
steadiness of his own voice. “Mrs. Champernowne 
in?” 

The parlourmaid came a step nearer, familiar 
and confidential. 

“The mistress is out, Mr. Hackdale,” she an¬ 
swered. “Gone to dine with Sir Reville Childer- 
stone—there’s a dinner-party there. I don’t expect 
her back before eleven. Mr. Alfred’s in, though,” 
she added. 

“Oh, well!—I’ll see him a minute, then,” replied 
Hackdale. “I suppose he’s not engaged.” 

The girl laughed, tossing her head as much as to 
imply that Mr. Alfred was never engaged, and re¬ 
treating into the hall, preceded Hackdale along its 
length to a door which she threw open without any 
preparatory knock. 

“Mr. Hackdale, Mr. Alfred,” she announced, 
with the same easy familiarity that she had shown 
to the caller. “Wants to see you a minute.” 


50 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Hackdale walked into a small, cosily furnished 
room, in the open grate of which a bright fire 
of pine logs blazed and crackled. In front of it, 
in the depths of a roomy lounge chair, his slippered 
feet to the fire, sat Mr. Alfred, an elderly, spare- 
figured man, wrapped in a smart dressing-gown 
and wearing a tasselled velvet smoking-cap. He 
had a mild and weak blue eye, a weaker mouth, 
scarcely hidden by a grizzled moustache, a retreat¬ 
ing chin, and an amiable smile. He held a large 
cigar in one hand, the Times in the other, and on 
the table at his elbow stood a decanter of whisky, 
a syphon of mineral water, and a half-filled tumbler. 
His first action on seeing Hackdale was to wave 
him towards these comforts. 

“Hullo, Hackdale!” he said. “Glad to see you! 
Sit down—have a drink—clean tumbler on the side¬ 
board there—help yourself. Turning a bit coldish 
o’ nights, what?” 

“No thank you, Mr. Alfred,” answered Hack- 
dale. “I’m on special constable duty—mustn’t stop. 
Mrs. Champernowne’s not in?” 

“Dining with Sir Reville,” replied Mr. Alfred. 
“Party there! Anything up?” 

“You haven’t heard any news from the town to¬ 
night?” asked Hackdale. “No? Well, there’s a 
queer sort of business occurred at the Chancellor 


THE SAFETY PIN 51 

Hotel. A gentleman who came there on Monday 
afternoon had disappeared—mysteriously.” 

“Pooh!—run away without paying his bill!” re¬ 
marked Mr. Alfred. “Usual explanation of such 
mysteries.” 

“No,” said Hackdale. “He’s a known man—a 
man of wealth. Name of—” he paused, carefully 
watching the other’s face—“name of Deane, James 
Deane.” 

“Never heard of him!—don’t know him!” de¬ 
clared Mr. Alfred. “Quite unfamiliar to me. Any¬ 
body in the town know him?” 

“I don’t think so,” replied Hackdale. “There’s 
—no evidence that anybody does. A tallish, spare- 
figured, grey-bearded man. I know you stroll round 
about a good deal, Mr. Alfred—you haven’t seen 
such a man during this last day or two?” 

“No, not to my knowledge—lots of men like that 
about, though,” replied Mr. Alfred. “Not an un¬ 
common type, from your description. Looking for 
him?” 

“Everybody’s looking for him,” said Hackdale. 
“The whole town, by this time!” 

“Then they can very well spare you for half- 
an-hour,” observed Mr. Alfred with a know¬ 
ing grin. “Sit down and have a drink and a 
cigar.” 


52 


THE SAFETY PIN 


But Hackdale said no once again, and letting 
himself out of the house, went swiftly away in the 
direction of City Hall. He met a fellow special 
constable in North Bar, and without telling him of 
his discovery, took him back to the police-station. 
And there Hackdale, alone, marched into the Super¬ 
intendent’s office, where Mellapont sat at his desk, 
examining a pile of documents. He shut the door, 
turned, and spoke two words. 

“Found him!” 

Mellapont leapt to his feet. 

“What!—Deane?” he answered. 

“Of course—who else?” retorted Hackdale. 
“Yes!” 

“Where, then?” 

“In that old sand-pit behind Ashenhurst House.” 

Mellapont came a step nearer, staring. For a 
moment he remained silent. 

“You—you don’t mean—dead?” he asked, 
tensely. 

“He’s dead enough,” answered Hackdale. “Shot 
through the head. And—it’s not suicide, either. 
There’s no revolver lying about.” 

Mellapont stared at him during another moment’s 
silence. Then he pointed to a chair. “Sit down, 
Hackdale, and tell me all about it,” he said. “Stop! 
—have you told anybody?” 



THE SAFETY PIN 


53 

“No one, so far,” replied Hackdale. “It was 
this way . . . 

Mellapont listened attentively and in silence while 
Hackdale told of his evening’s doings. At the end 
he put one direct question. 

“You didn’t examine the clothing?” 

“No!” said Hackdale. “No!” 

“Then you don’t know whether he’s been robbed 
or not,” said Mellapont. “Probably he has! Now 
the thing is to get him down here.” 

“There’s a thing should be done,” remarked 
Hackdale suddenly, as the Superintendent began 
bustling about. “Footmarks, you know! I couldn’t 
trace any—close by, that is. But then I’d only an 
electric torch. Still, there must be some about, 
somewhere. Because, whoever shot him must have 
gone with him into that sand-pit. You see?” 

“Unless he was shot elsewhere, or carried there,” 
said Mellapont. “That’s to be thought of, you 
know.” 

“I thought of it and I looked carefblly at the 
bushes, where he’s lying,” replied Hackdale. “I 
saw no signs of his having been carried or 
dragged.” 

“No clue to anything, in fact?” suggested Mella¬ 
pont. 

“I got no clue to anything,” said Hackdale, de- 


54 


THE SAFETY PIN 


liberately. Nothing, he said to himself, should in¬ 
duce him to tell about the safety pin which lay in 
his purse. That was his own secret, for the time 
being, at any rate. “To anything,” he repeated. 
“I don’t know, of course, because he’s lying face 
downwards, and I didn’t touch him—didn’t want 
to, until you’d seen him yourself—but I should say 
that most likely he’s been robbed, as you suggested 
at first.” 

“Probable!” assented Mellapont. “Well—we’ll 
get off.” 

Hackdale stood by while the Superintendent got 
his available forces together, and then prepared to 
lead him and them back to the sand-pit. Outside, 
Mellapont touched him on the arm. 

“Chilham, the police surgeon,” he whispered. 
“You know where he lives?—top of North Bar. 
Go on ahead and tell him, and ask him to come 
with us. May as well have him there at once.” 

Hackdale found Chilham in his surgery and got 
him out in time to join the Superintendent and his 
men. In silence he led them out of the town, past 
the grounds of Ashenhurst House, and into the 
sand-pit. Presently the glare of half-a-dozen bull’s- 
eye lanterns was concentrated on the dead man. Chil¬ 
ham got down on his knees. But he only said what 
Hackdale already knew. 


THE SAFETY PIN 


55 


“Shot through the head from behind!” muttered 
Chilham. “Close quarters, too. Turn him over. 
Look there—front of his head shot away. The 
murderer must have been close behind him, and 
held the revolver within an inch or two of his ear.” 

But Mellapont, bearing in mind what he had 
learnt at the Chancellor, was looking at something 
else. It was obvious enough that Deane had been 
shot, murdered—now he wanted to know why. He 
pointed to the dead man’s neckwear, a smart four- 
in-hand cravat. 

“Diamond pin gone!” he said. Then he pointed 
lower. “Gold chain gone! Feel in his pockets, 
Watson.” 

The man addressed, a plain-clothes policeman, 
dipped his fingers into one pocket after another, and 
suddenly looked up. 

“There isn’t a thing on him, Superintendent! 
Clear sweep—not even a pocket-handkerchief left!” 
he exclaimed. “Empty—the whole lot!” 

“Just what I expected,” muttered Mellapont. 
“Not going to be much mystery about this case, 
I reckon! Robbery as well as murder!—murder 
for robbery. Hackdale,” he went on, turning away 
from the main group, “there’s nothing more you 
can do here. Run down to Shelmore’s private 
house, and tell him all about it, and ask him to get 


56 


THE SAFETY PIN 


his aunt to go with him to the Chancellor to break 
the news to the young lady. And look here—ask 
Shelmore to wait at the Chancellor until I come 
there. We must have a look at the poor fellow’s 
effects.” 

Hackdale went away, found Shelmore, gave his 
message, and purposely keeping aloof from the 
police-station finished his duties for the night by 
going carefully round his beat. At midnight he 
went home. Ebbitt had just come in, and was 
standing outside the door of his own sitting-room, 
divesting himself of his cloak and muffler. He 
beckoned Hackdale to enter and pointed to the 
whisky decanter. 

“Have a spot after your labour?” he suggested. 
“Just going to have one myself. Well, heard any¬ 
thing of that missing man?” 

“Yes,” said Hackdale. “He’s been found. Mur¬ 
dered—shot. And robbed.” 

“Robbed, eh!” exclaimed Ebbitt. “Ah!” 

“Wasn’t so much as a pocket-handkerchief on 
him,” continued Hackdale. “And, according to our 
information, he’d a lot on him when he went out. 
Money—valuables.” 

“I told you I noticed a fine diamond pin on him,” 
remarked Ebbitt. “That is, if that was the man.” 

“That would be the man,” said Hackdale. 


THE SAFETY PIN 


57 


He drank off his whisky, said good-night, and 
went upstairs to his own room. He had a small 
safe there, set on a stand in a recess, and his first 
action after entering the room was to unlock it. 
His next was to take from his purse the curiously 
shaped safety pin, and to put it away in the safe's 
furthest corner. 


CHAPTER V 


THE PICTURE POST-CARD 

1 \ rt’ELLAPONT strode up to the front entrance 
***■ to the Chancellor just as the night-porter 
was closing the doors and slipped inside with a sharp 
question. 

“Mr. Shelmore here, Kight?” 

“With the guv’nor in the private parlour, sir,” 
answered the night-porter, pointing down the court¬ 
yard. “Said he was expecting you, sir.” 

“That’s it,” said Mellapont. He moved in the 
direction indicated; then suddenly paused and 
turned back. “Look here, Kight,” he continued, 
confidentially, “there’s a question I wanted to put 
to you. You aren’t the boots as well as the night- 
porter here, are you?” 

“No, sir—there’s a regular boots, Marsh.” 

“I suppose he’s not about here? He is?—in the 
kitchen? Fetch him here a minute, Kight,—I 
want to see him.” 

The night-porter went along the courtyard, 
58 


THE PICTURE POST-CARD 


59 


turned in at a door, came back with a man who, 
judging from his hands and his apron, was already 
engaged at his job of boot-cleaning. Mellapont 
went up to him. 

“Look here!” he said. “When do you collect 
the boots and shoes from the bedroom doors— 
night or morning?” 

“Both times, sir,” answered the man. “Depends 
a good deal on how many people there are in the 
hotel. If it’s pretty full, I go round late at night, 
and get a start on what there is put outside the 
doors. If there aren’t many people here, I don’t 
go round till say five o’clock in the morning.” 

“Monday night, now?—Night before last?” sug¬ 
gested Mellapont. “How were things then?” 

“House was full, sir—there wasn’t a room empty. 
I went round, first, at half-past eleven and gathered 
up what there was—a good lot. Went round again 
for another lot when I took back the first.” 

“Can you remember anything about what was 
outside number seven?” asked Mellapont. “Think, 
now!” 

“Yes, well enough!” answered the man. “There 
were two pairs of walking shoes there, when I 
went round the first time—a black pair and a brown 
pair. I cleaned them, with others and took them 
back about—well, it would be about one o’clock in 


6o 


THE SAFETY PIN 


the morning. They were still there, outside the 
door, when I passed it again at five o’clock.” 

Mellapont nodded, reflected a moment, said a 
word of thanks to the man, and then, turning away, 
walked quickly forward to the private parlour. 
There he found Shelmore and Belling, evidently 
discussing the situation. Without preface he broke 
in upon their talk with a reference to what he had 
just heard. 

“You may think there’s nothing in that,” he said 
when he had told them about the two pairs of shoes, 
“but I see a good deal in it. When we examined 
Deane’s body and clothing to-night, I noticed some¬ 
thing at once which to me seemed very significant. 
He’d gone out in a pair of dress shoes—thin-soled, 
patent-leather things! What do you make of that, 
Mr. Shelmore?—as a lawyer?” 

“I’m not versed in this sort of thing,” replied 
Shelmore. “What do you make of it?” 

“Why, that he’d no intention of going far; that 
he knew he wasn’t going off the pavement; that he 
knew where he was going—to some private house, 
close by!” replied Mellapont, triumphantly. “Let 
the young lady upstairs say what she likes, Deane 
knew this town, and somebody in it! Who ? That’s 
to be found out. The young lady may think her 
partner had never been here before, and had no 


THE PICTURE POST-CARD 61 

acquaintance here, but ... we shall see! By-the- 
bye, how is this young lady? Much shocked?” 

“She was very much shocked, but she took it very 
well,” replied Shelmore. “My aunt is with her— 
she’ll stay the night with her.” 

“Your aunt is a good sort, sir,” said Mellapont. 
“Well, we shall have to ask the young lady a lot of 
questions in the morning. But now,” he went on, 
turning to the landlord, “I want to have a quiet 
look at whatever this poor gentleman left in num¬ 
ber seven. You never know what you may find, 
and there’s no time like the present. I suppose all’s 
quiet upstairs, Mr. Belling? Then take Mr. Shel¬ 
more and me up.” 

Belling led the way across the courtyard to an 
inner hall on the opposite side, and then up a flight 
of oak-balustered stairs to the first floor. Opening 
the door of the room number seven, he switched 
on the electric light, whispered to Mellapont that 
he and Shelmore could count on not being disturbed 
and could lock up his room and bring away the 
key when their investigations were finished, and 
left them. Mellapont, turning the key in the lock 
when the landlord had gone, looked round. 

“A very precise and orderly gentleman, the dead 
man, Mr. Shelmore,” he murmured. “I can see 
that at once!” 


62 THE SAFETY PIN 

Shelmore saw what he meant. Whether it had 
been so left by its unfortunate late occupant, or 
had since been tidied up by the chambermaid, the 
room was spick-and-span in its neatness. Various 
toilet articles lay disposed in symmetrical fashion 
on the dressing-table; magazines and newspapers 
were laid out in order on a side-table; the half-open 
doors of a tall wardrobe showed garments hung on 
stretchers; every object in the room seemed to be 
in its proper place. 

“What do you expect to find here?” asked Shel¬ 
more, who was feeling vague as to the reason of 
Mellapont’s visit to this room. “Some clue?” 

“You never know what you may find, Mr. Shel¬ 
more,” replied Mellapont, still looming about him. 
“There’s more to be found and seen here than we 
found on the man’s clothing, anyway! I suppose 
Hackdale told you?—there wasn’t a thing on him! 
Every pocket had been emptied—even to his pocket- 
handkerchief. Now that last matter seems to me 
very odd and perhaps significant. Why rob a dead 
man of a thing like that!—a handkerchief! But 
there it is—there was nothing. Money, valuables, 
papers—if he had any—all gone. That reminds me 
when we go down again, I want to ask Belling a 
question or two. But now, let’s look round. These 
suit-cases first—when you’re at this game, Mr. 


THE PICTURE POST-CARD 63 

Shelmore, always begin at the beginning. Good 
solid leather stuff, these suit-cases—don’t make as 
good as that nowadays.” 

“One after the other he lifted the lids of two 
suit-cases which lay on a stand at the foot of the 
bed: each was empty. 

“Methodical and orderly man,” muttered Mella- 
pont. “Put all his things away in a wardrobe and 
chest of drawers. Well—clothes first. Might be 
some letters or papers in pockets.” 

There were two suits of clothes and one overcoat 
in the wardrobe, but a search of the pockets re¬ 
vealed nothing. Nor was there anything in the 
chest of drawers but a plentiful supply of linen, 
hosiery, and the like, all neatly folded and laid away. 
Mellapont turned to a leather attache case which 
lay on a chair close by. 

“This’ll be the likeliest thing in which to find 
papers,” he said. “And luckily, it’s not locked. 
Now, then, what have we here?” 

He lifted the attache case on to a table immedi¬ 
ately beneath the electric light, and threw back the 
lid. Shelmore stood at his elbow while he examined 
the contents. 

“Papers and books mostly,” muttered Mellapont. 
“Guide-books, by the look of ’em.” 

He took out, one after another, several paper- 


6 4 


THE SAFETY PIN 


bound books of the sort he had mentioned—guide¬ 
books to towns, cathedrals, famous ruins, and the 
like. Beneath these lay a writing-case, furnished 
with its owner’s own stationery. Shelmore noticed 
that the address engraved on the note-paper was the 
same that he had seen on Miss Pretty’s visiting- 
card. In one pocket of the case were several let¬ 
ters, addressed to James Deane, Esquire, at various 
places, and all signed “Your Affectionate Cynthia”; 
in another was a collection of hotel bills, neatly 
folded and docketed. 

“Trace his recent movements from there, any¬ 
way,” remarked Mellapont, after a glance at the 
dates. “Seems to have been knocking around a 
good deal, lately. And here, evidently, are pictures 
that he’s collected on his travels—must have had a 
mania for that sort of thing, I think, Mr. Shelmore 
—unless he intended them as a present for the 
young lady—perhaps she collects them.” 

He pointed to the left-hand half of the attache 
case, which was filled with packet upon packet of 
picture post-cards, all neatly secured with India- 
rubber bands and ranged in order. Mellapont be¬ 
gan to take these packets out, pointing to the fact 
that they were all methodically labelled. He began, 
too, to recite the names of the places which they 
pictured. 


THE PICTURE POST-CARD 


65 


“Evidently collected these as he went along,” he 
remarked. “Didn’t the young lady say he’d gone 
North while she was staying at Bath? Just so,— 
well, here we can follow his route. Exeter, Bristol, 
Gloucester, Worcester, Birmingham, Sheffield, Nor- 
mansholt—where’s Normansholt, Mr. Shelmore?” 

Shelmore, unobserved by Mellapont, had started 
a little at the mention of Normansholt. One of 
his twelve clients, Sir Reville Childerstone, of Chil- 
derstone Park, just outside the city, had some 
property at Normansholt, and had lately been much 
concerned about the conduct of one of his tenants 
there: he had been obliged to employ Shelmore’s 
professional services in the matter: the name there¬ 
fore was quite familiar to Shelmore. He glanced 
inquisitively at the packet of cards which Mella¬ 
pont was handling. 

“Normansholt?” he repeated. “Oh, that’s in 
Yorkshire. Historic old town—famous castle and 
that sort of thing.” 

“Um!—that seems to have been his top mark,” 
said Mellapont, continuing to turn over the care¬ 
fully arranged packets. “Seems to have turned 
southward then. Doncaster—Newark—Peterbor¬ 
ough—Stamford—Ely — Cambridge — London — 
Dorking—and so here. Good round, Mr. Shel¬ 
more!—mostly old places, I reckon—probably had 


66 


THE SAFETY PIN 


a taste for antiquities. Well, I’ll just glance 
through these letters, to see if there’s anything—” 

He picked up the letters which he had taken out 
of the visiting case, and sitting down on the nearest 
chair began to skim them over. Shelmore, more 
out of idle curiosity about a place of which he had 
heard in the course of professional business but 
had never seen, took up the packet of cards labelled 
Normansholt, and releasing them from the rubber 
band, turned them over one by one. Normansholt, 
he thought, must certainly be an interesting and pic¬ 
turesque place. Deane had collected some twenty or 
thirty cards of it—views of the great Norman castle, 
the old churches, the various remains of antiquity. 
Each made a picture . . . but Shelmore suddenly 
found himself looking at a particular one with a 
sharply-aroused sense of wonder and speculation. 

This was a coloured photograph of what seemed 
to be an old-world nook-and-corner in a peculiarly 
old town. It depicted a sort of square, with a 
patch of green in the centre; out of this green rose 
a tall mast. All around were quaint, half-timbered 
houses of early Jacobean architecture. In the left- 
hand corner of the cards were the words May-Day 
Green, Normansholt. And Shelmore knew suffi¬ 
cient about old English customs to know that this 
was a picture of a place where the old May-Day 


THE PICTURE POST-CARD 


6 7 


revel had been celebrated aforetime, and that the tall 
mast was one of the last of the ancient Maypoles. 

But this was not the thing that aroused his won¬ 
der and speculative faculties. In the corner of the 
square of houses stood one which was larger, more 
important-looking, more picturesque than the others. 
From its roof and clustered chimneys, some hand, 
Deane’s presumably, had drawn a thick pencil line 
to the top edge of the card—a line that terminated 
in an equally thickly marked asterisk. And seeing 
this Shelmore felt a question spring up, uncon¬ 
trollably, in his mind. 

“Why?” 

“Why?—yes, that was it,” he repeated to him¬ 
self—“Why? Why out of the twenty, twenty-five 
or thirty picture post-cards of Normansholt had 
Deane selected that particular one and that par¬ 
ticular house for marking in an unmistakably dis¬ 
tinct fashion? What was his reason? Why had 
he done it? Again—why?” 

He glanced round at Mellapont. Mellapont was 
deep in the letters and the hotel bills. And seeing 
that, Shelmore hastily but carefully went through 
his collection of cards, from start to finish, be¬ 
ginning with those of Exeter and ending with those 
of Dorking, which was evidently the last place vis¬ 
ited by Deane before coming on to Southernstowe. 


68 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Out of the entire collection not one single card was 
marked, with the exception of that which had 
aroused his wonder. And as he put the cards back 
in the attache case a definite question shaped itself 
before him—what particular interest had James 
Deane in the corner house in May-Day Green, in 
the old far-away northern town of Normansholt? 

Mellapont suddenly rose from his chair, bringing 
back the letters and hotel bills to the writing-case. 

“Nothing there that throws any light, Mr. Shel- 
more,” he said. “Hotel bills—nothing! And the 
letters—just chatty, gossipy letters from the young 
lady to her guardian—nothing in them, except to 
confirm his statement that they were to meet here, 
spend a day or two looking around, and go on to the 
Continent. Well, let’s put all back, lock up the room, 
and go downstairs: I want to see Belling again.” 

Belling was in his parlour with the door open, 
evidently waiting. Mellapont motioned Shelmore 
inside, closed the door, and sat down. 

“Nothing that gives any clue up there,” he said. 
“But look here, Mr. Belling, I want to get a bit 
more information from you. You’re aware already 
that this gentleman, when found, hadn’t a thing on 
him in the way of money, valuables, or personal 
property. Now you had opportunities of seeing 
him on Monday night, and you saw that he’d 


THE PICTURE POST-CARD 


69 


both money and valuables. But—did other people?” 

“Anybody could see that he’d a fine diamond pin, 
an expensive gold watch-chain, and a couple of dia¬ 
mond rings on his fingers!” replied Belling. “That 
is, if they’d got any eyes at all, and turned them 
on him!” 

“Aye, just so!” agreed Mellapont. “But— 
money? Did he make any show of money? I 
don’t mean boastingly, swaggeringly, but—just nat¬ 
urally, as some men do. You know—some men 
pull their money out without thinking—some ” 

“I know what you mean,” interrupted Belling. 
“Well, yes, he was certainly one of the sort that 
are a bit what I should call careless in that way. 
He came into the bar a little before dinner, and 
asked the barmaid for a sherry and bitters—I was 
in there, and I noticed that he pulled out a handful 
of notes—fivers—openly, and picked some silver 
from amongst them—seemed to have a lot of 
money, notes and coins all mixed up in his pocket. 
He did the same thing after dinner, when he came 
to me in the bar and asked me about whatever amuse¬ 
ments were going on. He pulled out a fistful of 
money, then, to pay for two cigars.” 

“Were there people about?” asked Mellapont. 

“Several! The bar was full, both times.” 

“Townsfolk, or strangers?” 



70 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Both. There were several strangers there. Men 
I didn’t know anyway—and I think I know every¬ 
body in Southernstowe. Motorists, some of them. 
Others I took to be men who’d been to the fair.” 

“And they could see his money?” 

“If they were looking at him, just as easily as 
they could see his diamond pin! Nothing to pre¬ 
vent them!” 

Mellapont suddenly rose and bidding good-night 
to the landlord, went away with Shelmore into the 
deserted High Street. 

“What do you think, Superintendent?” asked 
Shelmore precisely. 

Mellapont coughed discreetly, and, alone though 
they were, lowered his voice. 

“I’ll tell you what I think, Mr. Shelmore,” he 
answered. “And I don’t suppose I shall ever think 
anything else! I think that Mr. Deane was watched, 
followed, murdered and robbed by some person at 
present unknown who knew that he’d money and 
valuables on him. That’s what I think! But—I 
also think something else. I think that Mr. Deane, 
whatever he may have said to his ward, knew 
somebody in Southernstowe, and had some extra¬ 
ordinary reason for seeing that somebody on Mon¬ 
day night! And I’m going to move heaven and 
earth to find out who that somebody is!” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT 

gHELMORE was not the first man to whom 
Mellapont had made this declaration of future 
policy. Mellapont had already made it, even more 
emphatically, to John Hackdale, and Hackdale had 
thought about it a good deal before he went to 
sleep and again as soon as he awoke. All the 
same, Hackdale went to his work at Champer- 
nowne’s next morning as if nothing unusual had 
occurred since his leaving it at five o’clock the 
previous afternoon. Nominally under-manager, 
with an under-manager’s salary, he was in reality 
the mainspring of a big industrial machine. 

For so small a town, Champernowne’s was a big 
store, doing a big business. That business had all 
developed to its present state of commercial pro¬ 
sperity through the energy of Mrs. Champernowne, 
whom everybody knew to be a very remarkable 
woman. Nobody in Southernstowe, however, knew 
who Mrs. Champernowne really was. Twenty 


7i 


72 


THE SAFETY PIN 


years before, she had suddenly appeared in the city, 
and before anybody knew what she was doing had 
bought up a decaying, though old-fashioned draper’s 
business, pulled the out-of-date premises to pieces, 
built a first-class modern store, and surrounded 
herself with a small army of capable assistants. 
There were those in Southernstowe who prophesied 
the loss of Mrs. Champernowne’s money, but 
Mrs. Champernowne knew what she was doing. 
Southernstowe, though a small city, was an un¬ 
usually wealthy one; the people of the immediate 
neighbourhood were wealthy, too; aristocrats and 
gentlefolk but thick as blackberries: Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne proposed to bring the modes and goods of 
London and Paris to their very doorsteps. And 
ere long visitors to Southernstowe found themselves 
staring in amazement at a shop which would have 
done credit to either Oxford Street or the Rue 
de la Paix; Mrs. Champernowne and her establish¬ 
ment represented the last thing in contemporary 
fashion. And Mrs. Champernowne made money, 
and within ten years was reputed to be the richest 
woman in the neighbourhood and possibly the 
wealthiest citizen of her adopted dwelling-place. 
But she had other interests than her store. She 
played a considerable part in the affairs of her 
adopted city, gave large sums to its charities, and 


THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT 


73 


furthered all schemes of civic improvement, and 
in the end a grateful and admiring Corporation 
unanimously elected her Mayor. Her election and 
the duties consequent upon it took her away a 
great deal from her business, but everybody in her 
employ knew that whatever other engagement she 
had on hand, Mrs. Champernowne was always in 
her private office at the store every morning at 
nine-thirty sharp, and that during the next hour 
and a half she took good care to assure herself that 
the well-oiled wheels of her machinery were run¬ 
ning with their usual smoothness. 

At half-past ten on the morning following his 
discovery of Deane’s dead body, John Hackdale 
knocked at the door of that private office and was 
bidden by his employer to enter. He went in to 
find Mrs. Champernowne seated at her desk and 
alone. She was writing a letter, and as she looked 
up, Hackdale gave her a keen, searching inspection. 
A tall, plump, handsome, well-preserved woman, 
still on the right side of fifty, Mrs. Champernowne 
usually showed signs of great good temper, good 
humor, and general contentment with life in gen¬ 
eral. But it seemed to the under-manager that on 
this particular morning she looked harassed and 
worried, and that her usual fresh colour had some¬ 
what faded; there were signs of anxiety about her, 


74 


THE SAFETY PIN 


and when she spoke her voice was slightly irritable 
in tone. 

“What is it, Hackdale?” she asked. “Anything 
important ?” 

“I want a few minutes conversation with you, 
Mrs. Champernowne,” replied Hackdale, ostenta¬ 
tiously closing the door behind him. “Private con¬ 
versation—if you please.” 

Mrs. Champernowne’s pen stopped dead in the 
middle of a line, and she looked more closely at 
her visitor. Hackdale gave her look for look. 

“Strictly private,” he added. “Strictly!” 

Mrs. Champernowne pointed to a chair at the 
side of her desk. 

“Well—what is it, then?” she demanded, with 
some asperity. “You’ll have to be brief, for I’ve 
a Council meeting at eleven o’clock—an important 
one.” 

“This is more important, much more, than any 
Council meeting, Mrs. Champernowne,” said Hack- 
dale. He seated himself by the desk and leaned 
forward. “Mrs. Champernowne,” he went on, 
“you’ve heard of course, of what happened last 
night—that a man was found, murdered, in the 
old sand-pit behind your house?” 

“I’ve heard that a man was found there who’d 
been shot dead,” replied Mrs. Champernowne, with 


THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT 


75 

an affectation of carelessness which Hackdale was 
quick to see through. “Whether it was murder 
or suicide, I don’t know.” 

“Murder!” said Hackdale. “No question of sui¬ 
cide. The man was deliberately murdered, Mrs. 
Champernowne!—it was I who found him! And 
it was very fortunate—very fortunate indeed—that 
I was quite alone when I found him. Very for¬ 
tunate, Mrs. Champernowne, for—you!” 

The colour suddenly rose to Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s face in an angry flush. She made as if 
she would rise from her chair. But Hackdale went 
on, with a shake of the head. 

“Fortunate, I say, for you, Mrs. Champernowne! 
For—I found something on him! Can you guess 
what it was? Well, then—this!” 

With the last word he suddenly produced from 
his pocket and held towards his employer, laid on 
the open palm of his left hand, the curiously shaped 
safety pin which he had taken from the tear in the 
dead man’s coat. He glanced from it to the woman ; 
it needed but the merest look to see that Mrs. 
Champernowne’s cheeks had turned dead pale. 

“You recognise that, Mrs. Champernowne?” 
Hackdale continued, in a low, smooth voice., “Of 
course you do! Do you remember that on Monday 
afternoon, you came to me in the drapery depart- 


76 


THE SAFETY PIN 


ment and showed me a small specimen box of 
these pins which you said had just come in for 
your approval from a man who had taken out pro¬ 
visional protection for their patenting, and who 
wanted to know your opinion of them as a business 
proposition? You said to me that the idea was a 
remarkably good one—and then you put the box in 
your pocket, and went home with it in your pocket. 
How came it that I found one of these pins in that 
dead man’s coat? Obvious! Mrs. Champernowne, 
all that’s known about the dead man is that his 
name is Deane, that he came to the Chancellor 
Hotel on Monday, and that on Monday night late 
he slipped out of the hotel—without doubt to visit 
somebody. Mrs. Champernowne, that somebody 
was you! He was with you that night—sometime. 
There’s a certain man here in Southernstowe, on 
whom I could put my finger in ten minutes, of 
whom Deane asked the way to your house, near 
midnight, on Monday. Deane found his way to 
your house, Mrs. Champernowne! He was with 
you—some time. Probably he tore his coat in your 
grounds, or in getting into your grounds—and you 
gave him this peculiarly made safety pin to fasten 
the torn pieces together till he could get them 
mended. Mrs. Champernowne, you know as well 
as I do that that’s all—fact! Fact!” 


THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT 


77 


Mrs. Champernowne, big, strong woman though 
she was, sat silent under all this, nervously knitting 
her fingers together. It was some time before she 
spoke, and when words came they were faltering. 

“Who—who knows of—of all you’ve said?” 

“Nobody! Not a soul, Mrs. Champernowne! 
Do you think I’m a fool? Nobody knows—nobody 
can know—unless I speak.” 

“Who—who is the other man you referred to?” 

“That’s my business, Mrs. Champernowne! Best 
not ask—leave him to me. I can silence him—if 
you make it worth while to be silent. Look here, 
Mrs. Champernowne, let’s be practical. Nobody 
knows anything of what I’ve told you. Mellapont 
is firmly of the opinion that Deane was followed, 
murdered, and robbed—that he was murdered for 
the money and valuables which, undoubtedly, he 
had on him. So far, so good—the police’ll stick to 
that. But Mellapont has another theory—that 
Deane went out to call on somebody in the city 
whom he knew, and Mellapont swears he’ll find out 
who that somebody is! Mellapont can’t—he hasn’t 
a clue—not a single clue. I’m the only soul living 
that has the clue—that safety pin is the clue, Mrs. 
Champernowne! Make it worth my while to hold 
my tongue for ever, and you can rest assured that 
you’re as safe—as if all this had never happened. 


78 


THE SAFETY PIN 


I don’t know what took place between you and the 
dead man—and I don’t want to know. It’s nothing 
to do with me. But—I can save you from an urn- 
pleasant situation. Give me what I want, and no¬ 
body will ever know that Deane went out to see 
you—and did see you! The episode will be— 
closed!” 

Mrs. Champernowne was watching him as in¬ 
tently as she was listening. 

“But—the other man?” she asked suddenly. 

“I tell you I can silence him,” replied Hackdale. 
“Easily! With money—your money, of course.” 

“And—yourself?” she said. “Yourself?” 

Hackdale drew a long breath, and folding his 
arms, looked round the room. When he turned 
again to his employer, it was with a smile—the 
smile of a man who finds it vastly agreeable to be 
in a position to dictate terms. 

“Well, Mrs. Champernowne,” he answered. “I’ve 
been a very good, trustworthy, dependable servant 
to you—you’ve never once had to find fault with 
me that I remember. It will be in your interest to 
give me what I want. And that’s this—your pres¬ 
ent manager, Mr. By water, is out-of-date and use¬ 
less—he’s worse than useless; he’s a nuisance! 
Pension him off, at once, and give me the manager¬ 
ship. Date my appointment from last January first 


THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT 


79 


and give me a thousand a year—salary to be fur¬ 
ther considered at the end of two years. Reason¬ 
able, Mrs. Champernowne 1—very reasonable.” 

Mrs. Champernowne’s cheeks were assuming 
their usual colour. She remained silent for a mo¬ 
ment or two, watching Hackdale, and turning her 
rings round and round her plump fingers. 

“How much money will satisfy that other man?” 
she asked abruptly. 

“A couple of hundred pounds, put in my hands, 
and judiciously used,” answered Hackdale, with 
promptitude. “Ample!” 

Mrs. Champernowne rose from her desk, and 
going over to a small safe in a corner of the room, 
took from it a bundle of notes and without count¬ 
ing handed them to Hackdale. Then she picked up 
a handful of papers. 

“Come in and see me about the other matter at 
twelve-thirty,” she said. “I must go to the Council 
meeting.” 

Without another word she left the room, and 
Hackdale, having put the 'safety pin in one pocket 
and the notes in another, went back to his duties. 
But at half-past twelve he was back. Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne had just come in—and as he closed the 
door, she turned on him and to their business with¬ 
out waste of words. 


8o 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Hackdale!—you’re going to play straight about 
this?” 

“My interest to do that, Mrs. Champernowne!” 

“I know nothing—nothing!—as to how or why 
that man was murdered,” she went on. “Nothing 
—absolutely nothing! Still, I won’t deny—to you 
—that I saw him that night. Why—is my busi¬ 
ness. Still—I don’t want that to get out. You’re 
sure that it can’t get out through you or that other 
man?” 

“Make yourself easy, Mrs. Champernowne! It’ll 
not get out from either. Are you certain that no¬ 
body at your house knows?” 

“Certain of that—yes! He caught me at the 
entrance gate—I talked with him there—a little. 
Never mind why. Well, this managership. I can 
do better than that, Hackdale. Sit down—listen. 
I’m going to be married—to Sir Reville Childer- 
stone. You expected it?—very well. This busi¬ 
ness will be converted into a limited liability concern. 
I can make you secretary and manager. Now for 
details. . . .” 

Hackdale went away from Champernowne’s to 
his dinner feeling as if a couple of inches had been 
added to his stature. Simmons, awaiting him in 
their sitting-room, was quick to observe his good 
spirits. He looked his wonder when Hackdale, 


THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT 


81 


suddenly rising from the table, went over to a cup¬ 
board and produced a bottle of champagne. 

“It’s neither my birthday nor yours,” observed 
Simmons. 

“Never mind, my boy!” exclaimed John. 
“I’ve had a stroke of big luck this morning. Bit 
of a secret at present, Sim, but you’ll hear all about 
it before long. Going to be great developments 
at our place, and I shall be biggest man there, 
Sim!” 

“What’ll it run to—then?” enquired Sim. 

Hackdale laughed. The prospect which Mrs. 
Champernowne had opened out before him was 
infinitely better than that he had sketched for him¬ 
self. 

“Can’t say as to that yet, my boy!” he answered. 
“But—big—big, Sim! Didn’t I always tell you I 
should be top dog at Champernowne’s some day. 
Nothing like my motto, Sim—always look after 
your own interest! Self first!—never mind where 
the other fellow gets to. You don’t look round in 
running races—at least, if you do, some other 
chap’ll be past you in a flash. You look after your¬ 
self at Shelmore’s as well as I’ve looked after my¬ 
self at Champernowne’s, and you’ll do. I’ll tell 
you what, Sim!—now that this is coming off, I’ll 
pay for your being articled to Shelmore, and then, 


82 


THE SAFETY PIN 


if you work hard, you’ll be a fully qualified solicitor 
in a few years. What do you say to that, Sim ?” 

Sim cocked his ears. His sharp eyes went to 
the champagne in his brother’s glass. But it was 
still as untouched as his own; clearly John made 
this offer in soberness. 

“I’ll drink to that, John!” he said suddenly. 
“Cost you a bit, you know.” 

“Don’t mind that, my boy, as long as you do 
well, and it pays,” declared Hackdale. “Well, 
here’s luck to it and the Hackdale motto—Look 
after Number One! Sim, if ever I start a crest 
or that sort of thing, I’ll have that underneath! 
Never mind anybody else—self first, and hang the 
second fellow.” 

“Good!” asserted Simmons, and went steadily on 
with his dinner. “I’ll speak to Shelmore about the 
articling when I go back. But—I shall try to bar¬ 
gain with him.” 

“Bargain? How?” asked Hackdale. 

“Try to get something out of him,” answered 
Simmons, with a crafty look. “Suggest that he 
should do a bit towards it. I’ve been jolly useful 
to Shelmore! If I can screw something out of 
him, why not? Save your pocket.” 

Hackdale nodded, sipped his wine, and smiled. 

“I don’t think you’ll let the flies settle on 


you, 


THE OPPORTUNE MOMENT 83 

Sim!” he said, with evident satisfaction. “You 
know pretty well how to take care of yourself! 
Bargain all you like with Shelmore. You know 
your own interests.” 

“Trust me!” muttered Simmons. “Been study¬ 
ing ’em long enough!” 

He went back to Shelmore’s office at half-past 
two intending to broach the subject there and then. 
But just as he was about to knock at Shelmore’s 
door, Shelmore’s bell rang, and Simmons responded 
to find his principal standing near his desk, reading 
a written document with an air of -something very 
like doubt or disfavour. 

“Hackdale,” he said, “Miss Pretty has been 
here. She’s a very determined young lady, Hack- 
dale !—the sort that insists on having her own way; 
also, it seems that though she’s not of age, she’s 
a very large sum of money in her bank which she 
can spend as she likes. And though she’s been in 
consultation with Superintendent Mellapont all the 
morning, and Mellapont has practically proved to 
her that her guardian was murdered by strangers 
for the sake of what he’d got on him, she won’t 
believe it—she’s got it firmly fixed in her head that 
Deane was followed here and murdered by some 
enemy. And she insists on offering a reward and 
has asked me to get a bill printed and posted for 


84 


THE SAFETY PIN 


her. I don't see much good in it—I firmly believe 
Mellapont to be right. What do you think, Hack- 
dale?" 

“What's the amount?" asked Simmons. 

“She fixed it herself!" replied Shelmore. “A 
thousand pounds! A very wilful young lady!— 
she declared that if that didn’t bring any result, 
she’d double it. I suppose we’ll have to get it 
printed and distributed for her?" 

“If she likes to do it, why not?" said Simmons. 

“Seems to me waste of time and money," an¬ 
swered Shelmore. “However—take it over to 
Pemberton’s, and give them instructions for print¬ 
ing and posting it. Something may come of it— 
but I'm doubtful. Still—somebody’s guilty, and 
that somebody’s somewhere." 

He handed over the copy to Simmons, and the 
clerk, without further comment, turned away. As 
he went down the stairs to the street, he met an 
elderly gentleman coming up and recognising Sir 
Reville Childerstone, told him that Mr. Shelmore 
was in his office, and then, for particular reasons 
of his own, made more haste than ever to discharge 
his errand. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE CREVICED WALL 

pEMBERTON’S printing office lay in a narrow 
alley at the back of the Chancellor Hotel, 
and when Simmons Hackdale hurried in at its door 
Pemberton himself, one of those men who wear a 
perpetually worried look, stood behind the counter, 
sorting paper. He listened with something of an 
aggrieved air while Simmons explained what he 
wanted, and then shook his head. 

“Can’t get it out by to-night, nohow!” he de¬ 
clared. “Don’t care how insistent the young lady 
is. Get it done and distributed and posted, too, for 
you by noon to-morrow, Mr. Simmons—that’s the 
quickest I can do.” 

“All right,” said Simmons. “No such hurry as 
all that, when it comes to it. What about a proof?” 

“Look in when you go home this evening,” an¬ 
swered Pemberton. “I’ll have one ready for you.” 

Simmons hurried back to Shelmore’s. He had 


86 


THE SAFETY PIN 


his own reasons for hurrying. He knew that Sir 
Reville Childerstone was now closeted with Shel- 
more in his private room, and he wanted to hear 
what they were talking about. Also he knew how 
he would easily satisfy that desire. Simmons had 
a natural propensity for finding out everything pos¬ 
sible about anything or anybody, and he was not 
beyond eavesdropping or listening at keyholes. But 
there was no need to listen at the keyhole of Shel- 
more’s room. Before Simmons had been a week 
in Shelmore’s employ, he had discovered that the 
wall which separated the clerk’s room from the 
private office was by no means sound proof. It 
had crevices in it—and being merely a lath-and- 
plaster erection at best, the crevices in course of 
time had opened, and were not at all obscured by 
flimsy wall-paper. Indeed, there was one in par¬ 
ticular, through which Simmons had poked his 
finger, so wide that you could see through it into 
Shelmore’s room: over that crevice Simmons al¬ 
ways kept an old overcoat hanging on his side, 
while, on Shelmore’s, he had hung a local calendar. 
And now, going quietly up the stair and entering 
his own room with the tread of a cat: he went 
over to this convenient crack, held the overcoat 
aside, and put his ear to the wall. He had not been 
listening many minutes when he knew that he was 


THE CREVICED WALL 87 

getting first-hand confirmation of the truth of a 
rumour which had been gradually spreading through 
Southernstowe for some time—Sir Reville Childer- 
stone was going to marry Mrs. Champernowne. 
Sir Reville was discussing marriage settlements 
with Shelmore, who was evidently making elaborate 
notes of his wishes. Simmons gathered from the 
conversation that the marriage was to be solemnised 
before long—probably before Christmas. He learnt 
that Mrs. Champernowne, on becoming Lady Chil- 
derstone, would give up Ashenhurst House and go 
to Childerstone Park, four miles outside the city. 
And then came personal details which, for family 
reasons, interested the listener much more. 

“I gather that Mrs. Champernowne won’t take 
on the Mayoralty again?” said Shelmore, after a 
slight pause in the conversation, during which Sim¬ 
mons had heard the steady scratching of his em¬ 
ployer’s pen. “Or will she?” 

“She won’t,” replied Sir Reville. “As Lady 
Childerstone she’ll retire into private life. Done 
her duty, I think, Shelmore—indefatigable in her 
discharge of it, what?” 

“An admirable Mayor!” assented Shelmore. “I 
question if they’ll find any man in the city who’ll 
do as well as she’s done. But the business ? What’s 
she going to do about that?” 


88 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“She’s just come to a decision—this very morn¬ 
ing,” said Sir Reville. “She and I have just been 
lunching at the Chancellor, and she informed me 
of her settled intentions. The thing’s private, but, 
of course, I don’t mind telling you, as between 
solicitor and client, knowing that the news won’t go 
any further. Champernowne’s, Shelmore, is to be 
turned into a limited liability company.” 

“Ah!” said Shelmore. “Good idea, Sir Reville! 
Of course, Lady Childerstone will keep a control¬ 
ling interest in it?” 

“To be sure—she’ll hold a majority of the shares, 
and, for a time at any rate, she’ll act as Chairman 
of the directorate,” assented Sir Reville. “I pro¬ 
pose to take up a considerable number of shares 
myself and to become a director—the business is 
too valuable a property to neglect, though, of 
course, after its conversion into a company it won’t 
need the daily supervision which Mrs. Champer- 
nowne now gives it.” 

“It’ll need a first rate manager,” remarked Shel¬ 
more. 

“He’s there to hand!” said Sir Reville, with a 
satisfied chuckle. “Made and trained and taught 
all the tricks of the trade by Mrs. Champernowne 
herself! Young Hackdale!—smart fellow! He’s 
to act as secretary and manager—Mrs. Champer- 


THE CREVICED WALL 89 

nowne proposes to give him a couple of thousand 
a year.” 

“Well, I daresay he’s worth it in a big business 
like that,” said Shelmore. “Yes, Hackdale’s all 
right—clever man, and a pushing, hard-working 
man. I suppose all this is to be carried out 
shortly?” 

“At once,” replied Sir Reville. “Before the 
marriage. So you can get on with those settle¬ 
ments—always well to be in time, Shelmore. Um! 
—well, I think that’s all just now, and I’ll be off. 
By-the-bye, heard any more about this murder 
affair?—any fresh news?” 

“Nothing,” answered Shelmore. “The police— 
such of them as are left in the city, for, as you 
know, nearly the whole lot are away on this coal- 
strike business—are making enquiries all round, 
but they’ve not resulted in anything yet. No doubt 
the man was murdered for what he’d got on him. 
But there’s a curious thing about that matter which 
I was going to speak to you about, Sir Reville, next 
time we met. This man, Deane, had been travelling 
about in the North of England for three or four 
weeks before he came down here, and when Mella- 
pont and I examined his belongings at the Chan¬ 
cellor we found a considerable collection of picture 
post-cards of places he’d visited. I was much in- 


90 


THE SAFETY PIN 


terested in seeing that one of these places was the 
old town where that bit of property of yours is 
about which we’d had so much bother—Normans¬ 
holt.” 

“Normansholt, eh?” said Sir Reville. “Oh, been 
there, had he?” 

“Evidently, from the number of pictures he had 
of it. Fine, picturesque old town,” continued Shel- 
more. “He’d collected some striking views.” 

“Only been to Normansholt once, myself,” re¬ 
marked Sir Reville. “When I came into that piece 
of property, there, I went down to have a look at 
it—had a look at the town, too, of course, while I 
was there. Historic place—old castle, ruined abbeys, 
ancient buildings—that sort of thing.” 

“Just so,” agreed Shelmore. “Well, this man, 
as I say, had collected a lot, twenty to thirty, of 
picture post-cards of Normansholt. And—this was 
what I’d wanted to mention to you—on one of them 
he’d made a conspicuous pencil-mark against a cer¬ 
tain picturesque old house. Odd—very odd, to my 
mind.” 

“Why, Shelmore?” asked Sir Reville. 

“I’ll tell you. There was a big collection of 
similar cards in his suit-case, there are four hundred 
in all, that he’d evidently picked up in his travels, 
and that was the only card that bore any mark. 


THE CREVICED WALL 


9i 

Why did he mark that particular card, and that 
particular house?” asked Shelmore. ‘‘Why?” 

“Oh, I don’t see anything in that!” replied Sir 
Reville, with a laugh. “Sort of thing that anybody 
might do. Probably took a fancy to the house. 
How do you know what the man was after? Per¬ 
haps he went up north with the idea of buying a 
house?—hang it, I wish he’d bought my property 
at Normansholt!—it’s nothing but a confounded 
nuisance as it is—and the tenant’s a confounded 
nuisance. I’ll tell you what, Shelmore, if that 
affair’s not settled soon, you’ll have to take drastic 
measures!” 

“I’ve given his solicitors a fortnight in which to 
make an offer for settlement,” answered Shelmore. 
“If their client’s still impenitent and defiant at the 
end of that time, we’ll see about a writ. Odd, 
though, isn’t it, that this murdered man should have 
been at Normansholt and singled out a house there? 
—just when the place was in my thoughts!” 

But Sir Reville saw nothing in this but very 
ordinary and commonplace coincidence, and said so. 
He gave signs of moving, and Simmons slipped 
away from his crack in the wall, replaced the old 
overcoat, and made ready to bow the baronet out. 
When Sir Reville had gone, he memorised the im¬ 
portant features of the overheard conversation. 


92 


THE SAFETY PIN 


One—Mrs. Champernowne was going to marry Sir 
Reville Childerstone. Two—Champernowne’s was 
to be converted into a limited liability company, and 
his brother John was to be secretary and manager 
at a commencing salary of £2000 a year. Three— 
the murdered man, Deane, had lately been to Nor- 
mansholt, in Yorkshire, and for some reason or 
other had marked a certain house shown in a picture 
post-card of that place—a circumstance which Shel- 
more, who was no fool, thought very odd. All 
right, concluded Simmons, storing these things 
away in his retentive memory: now he knew more, 
much more, than he had known at the beginning 
of the afternoon. And to him a day was lost unless 
he added to his store of knowledge. 

For reasons of his own, not unconnected with 
the news about Champernowne’s, Simmons said 
nothing to Shelmore that afternoon in respect of 
the proposed articling. At a quarter-past five he 
left the office and went round to Pemberton’s. 
Pemberton at sight of him pushed a damp, freshly- 
pulled proof across the counter. 

“I can do a bit better for you,” he said. “If 
you pass the proof now, I can print a supply off 
and get it distributed and posted early in the morn¬ 
ing—get it out before breakfast-time, if you like.” 

“The sooner the better—for the responsible 


THE CREVICED WALL 


93 


party,” remarked Simmons. He produced a pencil 
and rapidly ran over the proof. “Quite all right,” 
he said. “No mistakes there. Then you’ll get it 
out early—distribution, too?” 

“I’ll see to it,” agreed Pemberton. “Shop-win¬ 
dows—public houses—that sort of thing.” 

Simmons nodded and turned away; then a 
thought struck him and re-entering the shop he 
asked the printer for another copy of the proof. 
With this in his pocket, he went home to tea. 

John Hackdale was already at the tea-table, re¬ 
freshing himself before starting out on his special- 
constable duties. Simmons, entering, laid before 
his brother the proof of the reward bill. 

“Latest I” he said laconically. 

He sat down and helped himself to tea and toast, 
while John, a lump of cake bulging his cheek, read 
the bill. 

“Whose notion’^ that?” he demanded, suddenly. 
“Shelmore’s?” 

“The girl’s,” replied Simmons. “Miss Pretty. 
Insists on it. Came to Shelmore, said she’d piles 
of ready money in the bank and would spend it like 
water to find out who murdered Deane, and made 
him draft that. Shelmore ?—no!—Shelmore doesn’t 
approve of it.” 

“Why not?” asked John. 


94 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Thinks it’s waste of time and money,” an¬ 
swered Simmons. “If there’s anybody in Southern- 
stowe who knows anything of Deane’s movements 
that night, or had ever seen him, they’d have told 
Mellapont before now.” 

John Hack dale said nothing. But he was think¬ 
ing—thinking of Bartlett. Bartlett the impecun¬ 
ious!—who would see this bill as soon as it was 
passed. 

“When’s this going to be out, Sim?” he asked 
presently. “To-night?” 

“No—but by breakfast-time to-morrow,” replied 
Simmons. “Why—do you think anything’ll come 
of it?” 

“Somebody might know something,” answered 
John, carelessly. “A thousand pounds’ offer is a 
wonderful thing for sharpening memories!” 

“And for quickening imaginations!” sneered 
Simmons. 

John said no more. He set off for the City Hall 
and stayed there some little time. When he left 
the dusk had fallen. Instead of going northward 
on his proper beat he turned down into a network 
of alleys and courts, and coming at last to a cheap 
boarding-house knocked at its door and asked for 
James Bartlett. 

Bartlett presently appeared, a subdued eagerness 


THE CREVICED WALL 


95 


in his eyes. Hackdale motioned him to follow and 
led the way to a quiet spot at the end of the alley. 
He plunged into his business without any unneces¬ 
sary preface. 

“About that affair the other night,” he said, eye¬ 
ing his man as closely as the falling light allowed. 
“You’ve kept your mouth shut?” 

“Tight, Mr. Hackdale,” answered Bartlett. “Not 
one syllable has passed these lips, sir, to a soul, 
except yourself.” 

“I know more, now, than I did when I saw 
you,” continued Hackdale. “Found out more. That 
man—we needn’t mention names—did want to see 
Mrs. Champernowne, and did see her—met her, 
accidentally, outside her gates, had a brief talk with 
her, and left her—or she left him. She knows no 
more than that. He must have been lured by some¬ 
body into that sand-pit, murdered there, and robbed. 
Of course, Mrs. Champernowne knows nothing 
whatever of anything that happened to the man 
after she left him. But—you understand? She 
doesn’t want it known that she ever saw him. She 
has—reasons. And—nobody but you knows—what 
you know. Eh?” 

“I’m following you, Mr. Hackdale,” said Bart¬ 
lett, knowingly. “I’m taking it all in, sir.” 

“Then take this in,” continued Hackdale. “Ques- 


96 


THE SAFETY PIN 


tions are sure to be asked—enquiries made. Don’t 
you think it would be just as well—for everybody 
—if you went where you wouldn’t be questioned? 
Come, now? Look here!—you told me, one night, 
some time ago, that you’d relatives in America— 
and that if you’d money, you’d go to them. Eh?” 

“And so I would, Mr. Hackdale, so I would, 
if I’d the passage money,” answered Bartlett, with 
obvious eagerness. “I would, indeed; I’d go—” 

“Listen to me,” interrupted Hackdale. “There’s 
a steamer from Southampton to New York to-mor¬ 
row—she’ll leave about noon. If you’ll be off to 
Southampton to-night, by the 9:53 train, and will 
promise to sail to-morrow, I’ll give you a hundred 
and fifty pounds to take with you, and on hearing 
of your arrival at whatever town it is in America 
you want to go to, I’ll cable you another hundred 
and fifty. Come, now!—make up your mind, Bart¬ 
lett. Is it a bargain?” 

Bartlett suddenly thrust out his hand. 

“Done!” he said. “I’ll go! I’ve so often talked 
of it—amongst what friends I have—that nobody’ll 
think it strange. Yes, I’ll go, Mr. Hackdale. I’ll 
just pack a bag, and be off to Southampton: I can 
buy a few things there in the morning, and catch 
the boat. Done, sir!” 

Within five minutes, Hackdale had handed over 


THE CREVICED WALL 


97 


the hundred and fifty pounds to Bartlett, made a 
few arrangements with him, and gone away. He 
had no doubt whatever that Bartlett would clear 
out—none. 

And Bartlett went back into the cheap lodging- 
house and began to pack his small belongings, fully 
intending to be off to a new world on the morrow 
—fully. But before he had got half-way through 
his task, another visitor summoned him downstairs. 
This was Pemberton, the printer, who held out to 
him a bundle of what looked like circulars, damp 
from the press. 

“Bit of a job for you, Jim,” said Pemberton. 
“Just distribute these amongst the shops and public 
houses early in the morning, and when it’s done 
call round on me for half-a-quid. See?” 

Bartlett held the topmost bill to the light of the 
door lamp and read it through with unmoved coun¬ 
tenance. A thousand pounds reward for . . . he 
suddenly thrust the bundle back into Pemberton’s 
hands. 

“Sorry—can’t do it, old man!” he said cavalierly. 
“I’m just going away—to visit an old friend in 
the country. Try somebody else.” 

Without waiting for comment, he turned, has¬ 
tened upstairs, and finished his packing. And as he 
packed, he thought, and puzzled things out, and 


98 


THE SAFETY PIN 


began to develop a theory. He went on thinking 
and developing as he walked to the station: he con¬ 
tinued to think and to develop after he had got 
into the 9:53. 

The 9153 stopped at Portsmouth at 10128. And 
at Portsmouth Bartlett got out, forfeited his ticket, 
and went off to find a cheap hotel. By that time 
he had given up all thoughts of America: at pres¬ 
ent, he considered, there were better chances in 
England. 


CHAPTER VIII 


miss pretty's way 

OEMBERTON, baulked of Bartlett’s services in 
the matter of bill-distributing, turned else¬ 
where. He had no difficulty in finding a substitute, 
there were plenty of idle men about, any one of 
whom was glad enough to earn the half-sovereign 
which Bartlett spurned. And by nine o’clock next 
morning every shop window in the business quarter 
of Southernstowe was displaying the bill, and early 
risers were wondering if anybody would be lucky 
enough to gain the thousand pounds reward. 

Mellapont saw the bills as he came down from 
his house on the outskirts of the city and swore 
softly to himself. From the start-out of his career 
in the police force he had always been wanting a 
case, a big case, a suitable cause celebre, and it had 
seemed to him that at last he had one in the Chan¬ 
cellor Hotel mystery. He had meant to keep it to 
himself, to do all the spade-work himself, to have 
all the credit of detection and discovery for himself. 


99 


IOO 


THE SAFETY PIN 


He had purposely avoided the calling in of outside 
assistance; he did not want any sleuth-hounds from 
the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland 
Yard poking their noses into Southemstowe or 
sticking their fingers in his pie—he wanted to be able 
to say, when the job was done, that he had done it 
all unaided and by his own astuteness and ability. 
And now here was interference, and of the very sort 
that, just then, he certainly did not want. It was 
vexing—and when he had finished his routine duties 
at the police-station he went round to Shelmore’s 
office and said so, plainly. Shelmore shook his head 
and spread out his hands. 

“Not my fault, Superintendent/’ he protested. 
“I’m not sure that I don’t entirely agree with you. 
But what can we do with a young lady who—who’s 
about the most determined person I ever came 
across ? Miss Pretty came here and insisted on this 
being done. She told me coolly that although she 
isn’t of age, she’s piles of ready money in her bank 
which she can draw on as she likes, and she in¬ 
formed me further that she’d spend every penny of 
it in tracking down her guardian’s murderer! She’s 
the sort of young woman who’s jolly well going to 
have her own way and who’ll make things deuced 
unpleasant for anybody who tries to thwart her. I 
don’t know if all Cornish people are like her, for I 


MISS PRETTY’S WAY 


IOI 


never came across any of ’em before, but she’s— 
well, not exactly vindictive, but filled to the brim 
with a spirit that’s—something very like revenge. 
Got it into her head that it’s up to her to avenge her 
guardian—and she isn’t going to mince matters, or 
stick at anything. She was absolutely resolved about 
offering this reward, and if I hadn’t done the thing 
for her, she’d have gone out and gone to some other 
solicitor. If you knew her better-” 

At that moment Simmons Hackdale opened the 
green baize door and stood aside. “Miss Pretty!” 
he announced. 

Miss Pretty walked in with one nod to Shelmore 
and another to Mellapont. So far she made no dis¬ 
play of mourning garments; on the contrary she was 
arrayed in her smartest clothes, and she looked very 
much alive and decidedly alert. 

“We were just talking about you, Miss Pretty!” 
said Shelmore, as he drew an easy chair towards 
the hearth and gave his recently lighted fire a poke. 
“Superintendent Mellapont regrets that we’ve put 
out that reward bill.” 

Miss Pretty dropped into the easy chair and 
turned sharply on Mellapont. “Why, pray?” she de¬ 
manded. 

Mellapont rubbed his chin. He was not used to 
dealing with self-sufficient young ladies, and he 



102 


THE SAFETY PIN 


looked at this one, as a biologist might look at a new 
and surprising specimen. 

“Um!” he said, reflectively. “Er—a little prim¬ 
itive, you know, Miss Pretty. In cases like the 
present one, it’s best to leave things to us, to the 
police. But to wait a little, you know, before-” 

“I don't see any reason at all why I should wait!" 
interrupted Miss Pretty. “While one's waiting, the 
murderer gets away. I’m not interfering with you, 
Superintendent—you follow your methods, and IT 1 
follow mine. My guardian was foully murdered in 
this city and I'm going to know who murdered him !" 

“Just so!—I quite sympathize with your feelings, 
Miss Pretty," agreed Mellapont in his suavest man¬ 
ner. “But—in cases like this—mysterious cases— 
a little diplomacy is often a good deal better than 
open warfare. There are various ways of going to 
work—I prefer the—shall we call it secret, under- 
the-surface way? We’ve agreed on the fact that 
somebody murdered Mr. Deane—now, have you got 
any theory about it?" 

Miss Pretty considered matters for awhile. 

“I think somebody followed him to Southern- 
stowe, she said at last. “Somebody who knew he 
had money and valuables on him. I think that 
somebody probably stayed at the hotel and followed 
him out. There were lots of people staying at the 


MISS PRETTY’S WAY 


103 


hotel that night, according to what I’ve been told. 
Most of them left next morning—I don’t know if 
they can be traced or not. I suppose you police 
can tr ( ace and question them?” 

“The thing—to my mind—is this,” observed Mel- 
lapont. “Why did Mr. Deane go out from the 
Chancellor Hotel so very late at night?—midnight!” 

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Miss Pretty. 
“I think there may have been a reason. Mr. Deane 
was not a very good sleeper, and I’ve heard him say 
that he never slept well in strange beds. Now at 
home he used to go for a walk late at night—just 
before bedtime. I think that on that night at the 
Chancellor he felt that he wasn’t going to sleep, so 
he just got up again, dressed, and went out for a 
stroll. Simple!” 

“That he went out is certain; that*he was mur¬ 
dered and robbed is certain,” remarked Mellapont. 
“And,” he added, “it’s also certain, unfortunately, 
that we haven’t the slightest clue to the criminal’s 
identity. Now, my idea, my belief, Miss Pretty, is 
that your guardian met his death at the hands of 
some loafer, who afterwards robbed him. But I’ve 
another belief—I feel certain that Mr. Deane knew 
Southernstowe and somebody in Southernstowe, and 
that his real object in going out was to visit that 
somebody—late as the hour was.” 


104 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Miss Pretty shook her head. 

“When we were talking over this holiday,” she 
said firmly. “Mr. Deane remarked to me that he’d 
never seen Southernstowe, never been in this part 
of England. So how could he know it, or know any¬ 
body here? If I thought that he knew anybody 
here, and that he went to see that somebody that 
night—if I really do get, from any evidence you can 
bring, to think that . . 

She paused, shaking her head again, and Mella- 
pont waited. 

“Yes?” he said at last. “If you ever do get to 
think that? What?” 

“This!” answered Miss Pretty, with a very 
sombre look in her eyes. “This!—I’ll stop in this 
place until I’ve found out who that somebody is and 
have it out with him or her—I will!—if it costs 
me every penny I have in the world! And I’ve 
got a lot of pennies.” 

“You believe in a policy of thoroughness, Miss 
Pretty?” suggested Mellapont. “Going right through 
with it, eh?” 

“I’m going to know all and everything about what 
happened to my guardian and partner, that night!” 
declared Miss Pretty. “You go on with your police 
work, and let me go my way!—if we can’t find and 
hang the murderer between us, we must be poor 


MISS PRETTY’S WAY 


105 


tools! I came to see you, Mr. Shelmore,” she went 
on, turning to the solicitor, “about two matters— 
my guardian’s funeral and this inquest you said I’d 
have to attend. I’m going to have Mr. Deane buried 
here—I’ve settled that, and the time and place. But 
—this other affair?” 

Shelmore looked at Mellapont, and Mellapont 
hastened to explain. 

“The inquest opens this afternoon,” he said. “It 
will be quite a formal affair to-day—just identifica¬ 
tion and so on. Then the coroner will adjourn for 
a week or ten days. The adjourned inquest will be 
the thing. Perhaps, by then, we, the police, will be 
in possession of more evidence. I’m doing my 
utmost, Miss Pretty. But look here, now—if this 
reward-bill of yours brings anybody forward let me 
know! Mutual confidence, eh?—don’t do anything 
without me. I suppose you will remain here a- 
while.” 

Miss Pretty gave the two men a steady look. 

“I’m noP going one yard out of this city till I 
know who killed James Deane!” she said. “That’s 
flat!” 

Then she rose, and with a careless nod, went 
away, and Shelmore and Mellapont, left to them¬ 
selves, looked at each other. 

“You see?” said Shelmore, after a pause. 


io6 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“I see!” answered Mellapont, drily. “Um!—I 
don’t think anybody’s going to get any small change 
out of that young woman! Do you say she’s only 
nineteen ?” 

“Thereabouts,” replied Shelmore. 

“Good Lord!—what will she be at twenty-nine?” 
exclaimed Mellapont. “Prime Minister, I should 
think. Well!—but you’ll let me know if anything 
comes of this reward offer ? Don’t let’s get at cross- 
purposes. United action, eh?” 

“I’ll let you know,” said Shelmore. “If the 
promise of a thousand pounds, cash down, doesn’t 
produce anything, though—eh ?” 

“Just so!” assented Mellapont. “It’ll look as if 
we were never going to know anything. Still—I’ve 
my own methods. That jewellery now—whoever 
robbed him of it will want to dispose of it. To track 
that will be one of my lines.” 

“Yes,” said Shelmore. “But . . . supposing the 
person who took the jewellery is under no necessity 
to dispose of it?” 

“Eh?” exclaimed Mellapont. “What do you 
mean ?” 

“I mean,” replied Shelmore, “that the valuables 
on Deane may have been removed as a blind; to 
divert suspicion; to suggest that he was the victim 
of a vulgar murder—and—robbery, when, as a mat- 


MISS PRETTY’S WAY 


107 

ter of fact he was murdered for set purpose and 
design.” 

Mellapont stared, comprehended, and became 
thoughtful. 

“I certainly hadn’t thought of that,” he said at 
last. “Yes! Might be. That would argue that the 
murderer was some person of means, education, un¬ 
usual cleverness—to think of such a thing. Um! 
We’re all in the dark. Well—we must wait.” 

Miss Pretty waited, during the next fortnight. 
She saw her guardian buried in a quiet churchyard 
just outside the town; she occupied herself in clear¬ 
ing up her affairs; she had regular interviews with 
Shelmore and Mellapont. But she got no news, for 
nothing in the shape of news turned up. The ad¬ 
journed inquest came round; the coroner and his 
jury heard every scrap of evidence that could be 
produced. And after sitting all day the jury' re¬ 
turned a verdict of wilful murder against some per¬ 
son or persons unknown, and everybody went away 
from the court declaring that it was the only verdict 
possible, and that nobody, now, would ever know 
who killed James Deane. 

“Reckon I do know who killed he, poor man, all 
the same!” declared a native wiseacre in Miss 
Pretty’s hearing, as she passed out of the coroner’s 
court. “Do so!” 


io8 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Who, then, if so be as you knows in your clever¬ 
ness?” enquired his companion. “Mortial clever, you 
be, for to know it, when coroner and jury don’t.” 

“Don’t call for no mortial cleverness, that don’t!” 
retorted the wiseacre. “One o’ the pesky idle good- 
for-nothin’s what comes moochin’ round, fair-days, 
and hangs about the place all night, him it would be 
as did felonious kill and slay this here gentleman— 
or it med be two on ’em. Sleeps out, they does, in 
such places as that there old sand-pit. Well, he take 
his walk up there; they sees him, wi’ his fine clothes 
and goold watch-chain, and sparklin’ pin, and they 
settles him. Plain as my old stick here, that be— 
don’t want no crowner, nor jury, nor pleecemen, nor 
yet lawyers, to tell I that! I reckon I be filled wi’ 
more o’ the meat o’ common sense than all they 
lawyers and crowners put together—all talk they be!” 

Miss Pretty went away to think. She thought a 
great deal that night, and the next morning she 
called on Mellapont at the police-station. 

“I’ve changed my opinions,” she said laconically, 
when he had given her a chair. “Completely!” 

“Yes?” enquired Mellapont. “In—what way?” 

“I now think that Mr. Deane did know somebody 
in Southernstowe and that he went out that night 
with the express purpose of seeing that somebody,” 
she said. “Probably by appointment.” 


MISS PRETTY’S WAY 


109 


“No!” declared Mellapont, with emphasis. “Not 
by appointment! You remember—the chambermaid 
saw him in his night-clothes, about to retire. He 
got up and dressed, after that. It was an after¬ 
thought, a sudden thought, that rising and going 
out.” 

“Well,” said Miss Pretty. “Anyway, he went— 
to see this somebody. This somebody must have 
lived near where he was murdered.” 

“There are at least sixty houses, detached houses, 
villa residences, mansions, lived in by people of 
reputation and position round there,” replied Mella¬ 
pont. “It’s the best residential quarter of Southern- 
stowe.” 

“That was where he went—to that quarter,” per¬ 
sisted Miss Pretty. “Why don’t you make a house- 
to-house visitation? If he called at one of these 
houses-” 

“We don’t know that he ever did call,” interrupted 
Mellapont. “He may have been going to call. I 
don’t think he ever did call, anywhere. Had he 
called, late as it was, the possibility is that a servant 
would have answered his knock or ring, and in that 
case, your reward would have brought that servant 
forward.” 

“Supposing he went somewhere by appointment?” 
suggested Miss Pretty. 



IIO 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“That would argue that he’d made an appointment 
during the evening,” said Mellapont. “We have no 
evidence that he spoke to anyone except Belling and 
the hotel servants from the time of his arrival at the 
Chancellor to his going out of his bedroom. I think 
he went to call on somebody—and never got there.” 

Miss Pretty rose and looked round the drabness 
of the Superintendent’s room. “Are you any fur¬ 
ther forward?” she asked abruptly. 

“Honestly—no,” replied Mellapont. “Not one 
yard further. The whole thing is more of a mystery 
—an unsolved mystery—than ever.” 

Miss Pretty nodded and went away and back to 
her rooms at the Chancellor Hotel. She had told 
Belling that she was going to stay there indefinitely, 
and had engaged his best bedroom and an adjoining 
sitting-room. In the sitting-room she now sat down, 
and after a prolonged spell of thinking over a con¬ 
venient piece of fancy work, she came to a con¬ 
clusion. That led her to her writing-table, where, 
with more thought, she produced the copy for a new 
reward bill. When she had completed it, she took 
it round to Pemberton’s herself and made all ar¬ 
rangements about printing, distributing, and posting 
it: this time, she said to herself, she would neither 
consult nor trouble Shelmore or anybody else: this 
was her own affair. 


MISS PRETTY’S WAY 


in 


By noon next day everybody in Southernstowe 
had read the new bill. It went far beyond the terms 
of the old one. Miss Pretty made three offers. She 
would give £1000 to anybody who could prove that 
he or she saw James Deane after he left the Chan¬ 
cellor Hotel on the night of his death. She would 
give £1000 to anybody who could tell anything about 
the missing jewellery. And finally she would give 
£3000 to any person who could give information 
which would lead to the arrest and conviction of 
James Deane’s murderer. 

Simmons Hackdale was one of the first people to 
see this new bill, and his mouth began to water, and 
his hands to itch. If he could but get a clue—the 
slightest clue! And that very afternoon, if he had 
only known it, opportunity was coming his way. 
Shelmore called him into the private office and told 
him that he had an important, confidential mission 
for him. It was absolutely necessary that somebody 
should go down to Normansholt in Yorkshire and 
make personal inspection of Sir Reville Childer- 
stone’s property in that town: he, Simmons, should 
go. Next day. . . . 

Simmons went home to make ready. And as he 
packed his bag, he remembered what he had over¬ 
heard Shelmore tell Sir Reville about the marked 
picture post-card. Was there anything in it? 


CHAPTER IX 

BIRDS OF A FEATHER 

OIMMONS, after a two-hundred-and-fifty miles 
^ journey, found himself and his modest kitbag 
in Normansholt at six o’clock on the following after¬ 
noon. He had never been in the North of England 
before, and his surroundings struck him, accustomed 
as he was to the South as being grey and gloomy. 
But as he wandered through the old market square, 
looking about him for accommodation his sharp eye 
spotted what seemed to be quite an up-to-date hotel, 
the Bear, and he promptly stepped aside, booked a 
room, and ordered dinner. Simmons had plenty of 
ready money in his pocket, and knowing that what¬ 
ever he laid out would be returned to him, through 
Shelmore, out of Sir Reville Childerstone’s* amply- 
supplied coffers, he was determined to do himself 
well. If you are spending your own money, said 
Simmons be frugal; if somebody else’s, be lavish. 


112 


BIRDS OF A FEATHER 


ii 3 

This is a principle on which all officials are brought 
up, from big-wigs in Whitehall to the servants of 
obscure town corporations. 

He was halfway through his dinner in the coffee- 
room of the Bear when a waiter ushered in a smart, 
alert-looking young gentleman of his own age, 
whose eyes were full of polite enquiry. The waiter 
indicated Simmons, who had written his name and 
address with a flourish in the register downstairs, 
and the young gentleman, doffing his somewhat 
rakish hat, came forward, smiling widely. 

“Mr. Hackdale, from Southernstowe ?” he sug¬ 
gested, coming up to Simmons. “Mr. Simmons 
Hackdale ?” 

“That’s me,” replied Simmons, regardless of 
grammatical niceties. “You’ve the advantage of 
me, though.” 

“Mr. Swale, Swilford Swale—of Pike and Pil- 
kin’s, Mr. Hackdale,” said the caller. “We heard 
from Mr. Shelmore this morning that you were 
coming down to-day to inspect this property of Sir 
Reville Childerstone, and feeling sure you’d be here 
at the Bear, I thought I’d just drop in and give you 
a welcome to the old town—never been here before, 
I suppose, Mr. Hackdale?” 

“Never, nor anywhere near it,” answered Sim¬ 
mons. “Very kind of you, I’m sure, Mr. Swale. If 


THE SAFETY PIN 


1 14 

you’d been a bit earlier, I’d have asked you to din¬ 
ner. What’ll you have to drink?” 

Mr. Swale replied that he’d already dined, and 
after some little consideration, decided to take a 
glass of the Bear’s famous old port; Simmons, who 
up to then had drunk nothing decided to join him. 
Mr. Swale dropped into a chair close by, and while 
Simmons finished his dinner they exchanged the 
confidences of youth. Mr. Swale told Simmons all 
about Pike and Pilkin’s; Simmons told Mr. Swale 
all about Shelmore. By the time they had had 
two glasses each of the famous old port they were 
fast friends and had ceased to call each other 
Mister. 

“And now what would you like to do, old man?” 
demanded Mr. Swale, when he and Simmons quitted 
the coffee-room. “There’s not a great deal doing in 
this ancient borough, but there’s something. There’s 
a theatre and a picture-house, and if you care for 
billiards I can take you to the club. Or, as it’s a 
fine moonlight night, I can show you round the old 
place, and we’ll drop in at a famous pub, where the 
landlord’s a friend of mine—he’s got a drop of port 
that’s fully equal to that we’ve just sampled—fully! 
What’s your preference?” 

Simmons, who had a natural inquisitiveness about 
anything new and unfamiliar, said that if it were 


BIRDS OF A FEATHER 


ii5 

left to him, he’d like to have a general look round, 
and Mr. Swale, pleased to act the part of cicerone, 
led him forth and began a systematic tour of the 
town. He exhibited the Market Cross, the Parish 
Church, the Meeting Hall, the Castle, the ruins of 
two or three abbeys and priories, various ancient 
houses, and the site of the old gallows, and finally 
turned him round a corner into a square, from the 
centre of which towered a tall mast. 

“That’s something which, I’m given to under¬ 
stand, you don’t often see in England nowadays, old 
man!” said Mr. Swale. “A real, genuine, old- 
fashioned May-pole!—the original, antique one. 
There aren’t many left now—don’t know if you’ve 
any down your way?” 

“Never seen one in my life before!” declared Sim¬ 
mons. “Heard of ’em, of course.” 

“This square,” continued the guide, waving his 
hand around him, “is called May-Day Green. They 
used to hold the old May-Day revels here, dancing 
round that May-pole, and so on. I’ve heard old 
residents talk about ’em—given up they are now, 
though I myself have seen the May-pole decorated. 
One of the oldest parts of Normansholt this, my 
boy!—centuries old. There’s the May-pole Inn, in 
that corner—that’s where we’ll drop in for half-an- 
hour. In that other corner is a fine old place—the 


n6 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Manor House—that with the long, sloping roofs 
and tall gables. There was a most extraordinary 
thing happened at that Manor House some twenty- 
two years ago—don’t remember it, personally my¬ 
self, but I’ve heard my father tell about it, many a 
time.” 

“What was it?” asked Simmons. 

“Strange and mystifying disappearance of a man 
who lived there,” answered Mr. Swale. “Sort 
of thing that you read about in these tales and novels 
—only more so. Tell you about it if you like—but 
let’s look in at the May-pole.” 

Simmons followed his new-found friend into an 
old-fashioned inn which looked as if it had been 
lately transported from Elizabethan or even early 
Tudor days and seemed to be a rabbit warren of 
cosy nooks and corners. Its landlord, to Mr. Swale’s 
great disappointment, proved to be out for the even¬ 
ing, but Mr. Swale knew which particular brand of 
port to ask for, and providing himself and his com¬ 
panion with a couple of glasses led the way to a 
quiet corner in an oak-panelled room wherein burnt 
a cheery fire and suggested that as the night was 
still young they should make themselves comfort¬ 
able. 

“And I’ll tell you about that Manor House affair,” 
he added, as they settled themselves in contiguous 


BIRDS OF A FEATHER 


ii 7 


elbow chairs. “Eve often thought Fd try my hand 
at making a story of it, for the magazine, you know, 
but I’m doubtful if I’ve the writing trick, and besides 
I shouldn’t know how to wind it up. Perhaps you 
could make something of it, old man. What?” 

“Can’t say till I’ve heard it,” replied Simmons. 
“What’s it all about—a disappearance?” 

“Queerest disappearance ever you heard of!” as¬ 
sented Mr. Swale. “People hereabouts talk of it to 
this very day! Disappearance of a man who used 
to live in that Manor House twenty-two years ago— 
name of Arradeane.” 

“Name of what?” asked Simmons. 

“Arradeane—a, double r,a,d,e,a,n,e,” replied Mr. 
Swale spelling it out. “Queer name, but that was 
it—Arradeane, James Arradeane, Civil Engineer.” 

Simmons’s ears suddenly pricked and widened. 
Arradeane? James Arradeane? Leave off the first 
four letters, and you got Deane, James Deane—the 
name of the murdered man at Southernstowe! And 
—he suddenly remembered Miss Pretty and her first 
visit to Shelmore. She had said that her guardian, 
James Deane, was, by profession, a civil engineer. 
Could it be that he had stumbled on . . . 

“Yes?” he said quietly. “And—the story?” 

Mr. Swale sipped his port with the air of a con¬ 
noisseur and composed himself in his chair. 


Ii8 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“I’ll tell you,” he answered. “Oddest thing I 
ever heard of!—some features of it, the features 
about the actual disappearance, anyway. It was like 
this—as my father told it. To start with, you must 
understand that about twenty to twenty-five years 
ago there was a big boom in coal development 
in this neighbourhood. It was believed that there 
were very rich, undeveloped seams of coal all around 
this town, and people began to grow rich in anticipa¬ 
tion, and a lot of strangers came about, on the look¬ 
out for what they could get. Now amongst them 
was this man James Arradeane. He was a civil 
engineer by profession, but he evidently had consid¬ 
erable private means of his own. No one ever knew 
where he came from, but he came, and his wife with 
him, and he took that old Manor House that I’ve 
just shown you, and settled down, and let it be 
known openly that he was prospecting. He had 
some transactions with a company that was forming 
here; they did a lot of boring in some land they 
bought just outside the borough boundary, but it 
didn’t come to anything. According to what my 
father said—and he knew him well-” 

“Is your father alive?” interrupted Simmons. 

“Dead—these five years,” answered Swale. 
“Well, according to him, this Arradeane was by no 
means dependent on his profession—he seemed to be 



BIRDS OF A FEATHER 


119 

just waiting for a likely thing to put capital into. It 
was well understood in the town that both he and his 
wife had money—my father said she was a very 
handsome woman; clever, too-” 

“Just to get the proper hang of it, old man,” in¬ 
terrupted Simmons again, “how old might these two 
have been at that time?” 

“Oh, they were youngish people—under the thir¬ 
ties—she, at any rate,” replied Swale. “He would 
be a bit older, perhaps. Smart couple—used to drive 
very good horses, and cut a bit of a dash, you under¬ 
stand. But it got out in the town, somehow, that 
they didn’t hit it off, that there were differences 
between ’em. They’d no children, but Mrs. Ar- 
radeane had a brother who lived with them, a sort 
of hanger-on, you know, a chap who never did any¬ 
thing but loaf round and enjoy himself, at her ex¬ 
pense, of course, and it was said that Arradeane 
very much objected to it and wanted to clear him 
out, which Mrs. Arradeane wouldn’t hear of—she’d 
looked after this brother all his life, though that 
wasn’t long, and she refused to be parted from him. 
All that got to be known in the town—you can’t 
conceal anything in a little place like this, you know, 
old man ! And my father said that that might be the 
main bone of contention, or there might have been 
lesser ones, but anyway, it was well known that Ar- 



120 


THE SAFETY PIN 


radeane and his wife didn’t get on—the servants 
knew, and they talked, of course—and all of a sud¬ 
den Arradeane cleared out.” 

“Left her?” suggested Simmons. 

“In the queerest way,” answered Swale. “It was 
the manner of the disappearance that licked every¬ 
body; the manner! To start with, this Arradeane, 
according to my father’s story, was known to every 
soul in the town; he was the sort of man that makes 
himself popular. Well, as I tell you, he and his 
wife lived in that corner house, the old Manor 
House, which I’ve just shown you, with the brother 
I spoke of. Now, one morning these three sat down 
to breakfast. The servant who waited on them, a 
parlourmaid, said that they were quite friendly and 
amiable. She heard Arradeane say that he’d got to 
meet a couple of mining experts at the Bear Hotel 
at ten o’clock, and she saw him quit the house for 
that purpose at ten minutes to ten; she also saw him 
turn the corner of May-Day Green in the direction 
of the Market Place and the Bear. From that min¬ 
ute to this, old man, nobody in Normansholt has 
ever seen that man again! The parlourmaid was 
the last person that ever set eyes on him—as he 
turned that corner! Vanished!” 

“Impossible!” said Simmons. “Somebody must 
have seen him!” 


BIRDS OF A FEATHER 


121 


“I tell you he was well known to everybody in this 
place,” asserted Swale. “And this was a much 
smaller town twenty years ago than it is now, and 
now we’ve only seven or eight thousand people in 
it. Nobody saw Arradeane again: anyway, when 
the hunt-and-cry was raised for him, not a soul came 
forward who could say that he or she had set eyes 
on him that morning. From the moment he turned 
that corner he vanished utterly—just as if he’d sunk 
into the earth, or been snatched up into the heavens. 
Of course, he was not particularly missed for some 
hours—in fact, not till next day. He didn’t go home 
to lunch on the day of his disappearance, nor to 
dinner, and he didn’t turn up at night. His wife, 
however, thought little of that; she concluded that 
he’d gone somewhere out of town with the mining 
experts he’d spoken of, and was staying the night 
with them. But when she got no news of him next 
day she began to make enquiries. Then things came 
out. He’d never been to the Bear. The men he was 
to meet had waited an hour for him and gone away. 
Nobody, as I say, had seen him. There are three 
railway stations in this town, small as it is—three 
different systems, you see, old man. Well, he’d 
never been seen at any one of them. He hadn’t 
hired a trap; however he’d got away, it had been on 
foot. People wondered if he’d turned into the castle 


122 


THE SAFETY PIN 


and fallen amongst the ruins—there are some nasty 
places. But although they searched here, there, and 
everywhere, and made enquiries all round the neigh¬ 
bourhood, they never heard one syllable about him. 
Clean gone!” 

“Nobody got any theory?” asked Simmons, who 
was quietly taking it all in and putting the pieces of 
his puzzle together. 

“My father had one—probably a correct one,” re¬ 
plied Swale. “It was this. Just round the corner 
of May-Day Green there, where he disappeared 
from the parlourmaid’s view, is what we call a gin- 
nell-” 

“What on earth’s that?” demanded Simmons. 
“Ginnell?” 

“It’s what you call in English an alley, a passage,” 
said Swale, laughing. “A narrow alley between 
houses—backs of houses. This particular ginnell 
runs down back of the Market Place to the Meadows 
at the foot of the town. Cross the meadows and 
you come to the edge of a big wood that extends 
south-east for a couple of miles. My father’s notion 
was that Arradeane slipped down that ginnell, 
crossed the meadows, behind the thick hedgerows, 
took to the woods, and once outside them, went clean 
away across a very lonely bit of country until he 
came to a railway line which doesn’t touch us at all, 



BIRDS OF A FEATHER 


123 

and boarded a train at some small station where he 
wasn’t known. See?” 

“Good theory!” said Simmons, approvingly. 
“That, I should say, is what he did. But—his 
money ?” 

“Ah!” answered Swale. “That, of course, was 
looked into. As I said, he and his wife were people 
of means: they had money, both of ’em. He owed 
nothing in the town—sort of man who paid spot for 
everything. He hadn’t a banker’s account in the 
town, either; banked at Alsthford, twelve miles 
away. Well, it was found out, when enquiry was 
made about his disappearance, that two days before 
it happened, he drew out pretty nearly every penny 
of his balance—a big one—from his bank, and also 
took away a quantity of securities which they kept 
for him. Gave no reason, either. So—he carried 
off his money with him. Plant, old man, a clever 
plant!—wanted to get right away from his wife! 
That was about it.” 

“And—she?” asked Simmons. “What became of 
her?” 

“Oh, she stopped here for awhile,” replied Swale. 
“According to my father, after the first bit of en¬ 
quiry she never made any attempt to find Arradeane. 
Of course, she may have known something that no¬ 
body else knew. But anyway, at the end of three 


124 


THE SAFETY PIN 


months or so she sold up everything at the Manor 
House, and she and the brother departed—went to 
London, it was said. And nobody’s ever heard a 
word of any of ’em since—not a word. But it’s still 
talked of—of course, it was the clever disappear¬ 
ance that excited people’s wonder—smart thing, you 
know, old man, to slip clear out of a place where 
every man-jack knew you, unobserved, and without 
leaving a trace! And as I say, it would make the 
beginning of a rare good story—don’t know if 
you’ve got any talent that way ?” 

“Haven’t tried it yet, anyhow,’’ answered Sim¬ 
mons, drily. “Might have. And all this was—when 
do you say ?” 

“Twenty to twenty-three years ago,” replied 
Swale. “Just before I arrived into this vale of 
tears!” 

“There’ll be plenty of people in Normansholt 
who’ll remember all three of ’em,” suggested Sim¬ 
mons. “Must be.” 

“Lord bless you, old man, no end!” asserted Swale. 
“Lots! If the landlord had been in here, he’d have 
been able to tell the tale better than I’ve done—he 
knew Arradeane well enough. He’d have told it first 
hand—of course, I can only tell what my father 
used to tell me.” 

“Oh! well, there are a good many queer things in 


BIRDS OF A FEATHER 125 

this world,—” remarked Simmons. “Hear a lot of 
’em in our profession, don’t we?” 

“I believe you, old man!” said Mr. Swale, solemn¬ 
ly. “We do! Our profession lends itself to that. 
Ah!—if people only knew what secrets we lawyers 
k now —eh, what? Have another port, old man!” 

“Well, just one,” responded Simmons. “Busi¬ 
ness to do in the morning, you know.” 

He did his business in the morning, had another 
look round the old town, and then caught the early 
afternoon train southward. And he went homeward 
absolutely certain that James Arradeane was James 
Deane; Mrs. Arradeane, Mrs. Champernowne; and 
the loafing brother, Mr. Alfred,-—whose surname 
seemed to be an unknown quantity. 


CHAPTER X 

TURN TO THE LADIES 

^IMMONS’S naturally acute brain, sharpened by 
his legal training, was busy enough as he sped 
towards home. That he had made a discovery he had 
no manner of doubt. Certain facts were obvious: 
he began to classify and label them. The man who 
disappeared so mysteriously from Normansholt was 
named James Arradeane, and he was a civil engineer 
by profession. The man found murdered at 
Southernstowe was named James Deane; and, ac¬ 
cording to Miss Pretty’s statement he, too, was a 
civil engineer. The Mrs. Arradeane of Normans¬ 
holt had a brother who lived with her and was a 
loafer: Mrs. Champernowne of Southernstowe also 
had a brother who lived with her and was a loafer— 
and looked as if he had never been anything else. 
As far as Simmons could reckon things up from the 
story given him by his new friend Swilford Swale, 
the Mr. and Mrs. Arradeane of Normansholt would 


126 


TURN TO THE LADIES 


127 


now be about the apparent age of Mr. Deane, now 
deceased, and Mrs. Champernowne still living. Was 
James Deane the same person as James Arradeane? 
Was Mrs. Champernowne Mrs. Arradeane? Sim¬ 
mons was disposed to answer both questions in the 
affirmative. From the very beginning of the 
Southernstowe murder mystery he had kept himself 
posted in every detail, and now, as he journeyed 
south, he began to remember things which, at this 
first hearing, had not seemed very significant but 
now in the light of what he had accidentally dis¬ 
covered at Normansholt, seemed very significant in¬ 
deed. 

He began to consider some of them as he. sat in 
a comfortable corner of the dining car. In his 
pocket he had a quantity of cuttings, snipped out 
of the local paper, all relating to the Deane murder. 
He got them out and turned to the report of the 
adjourned inquest. Belling of the Chancellor Hotel 
had given evidence at that. Belling’s evidence was 
very full; the Coroner on one hand, and Shelmore 
(representing Miss Pretty) on the other had ex¬ 
tricated from him everything he could remember 
about his two conversations with the murdered man: 
Simmons now went carefully through the questions 
and replies. And out of them one fact was clearly and 
unmistakably on the surface:—when Deane went to 


128 


THE SAFETY PIN 


the Picture-House that fatal Monday night, he then 
saw Mrs. Champernowne. That was proved by the 
fact that when he went back to the Chancellor he 
asked Belling who she was, and subsequently talked 
to Belling about her and her office. Now then, 
asked Simmons of himself—did Deane, or, as he 
now believed him to be, Arradeane, recognize in 
Mrs. Champernowne the wife from whom he had 
run away at Normansholt some twenty years before? 

Simmons thought that this was really what had 
happened. And if it was, it explained a good deal. 
It seemed to him that what subsequently took place 
that night was something like this—Deane, or Ar¬ 
radeane, after retiring for the night suddenly took 
it into his head to go and see Mrs. Champernowne 
there and then; got up, late as it was, and went. 
And out of that rose more questions than one. Did 
Deane see Mrs. Champernowne? If so—where, and 
at what time ? What did he want to see her about ? 
That last question sent Simmons back to his news¬ 
paper cuttings: again he turned to Belling’s evi¬ 
dence. Ah!—there were two or three significant 
questions and answers. 

“ ‘What did you tell him about Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne ?’ ” 

‘Oh—just that she was Mayor of Southern- 
stowe, and a very clever woman—very successful 


TURN TO THE LADIES 


129 


business woman, too, just what everybody would 
have told a stranger about a notable person in the 
city—gossip!' ” 

“ ‘Anything else V ” 

‘Well, I did mention that it was rumoured that 
Mrs. Champernowne was believed to be engaged or 
about to be engaged to be married to Sir Reville 
Childerstone.’ ” 

That last reply seemed to Simmons to be one of 
great importance—he wondered how it was that the 
Coroner and his jury appeared from what followed 
to have paid no attention to it. But there, of course, 
they did not know and had no suspicion of what 
he, Simmons, knew. Knowing what he knew, that 
Deane was in all probability Arradeane and Mrs. 
Champernowne Mrs. Arradeane, he now saw a 
reason for the secret visit to her. Deane probably 
wanted to let her know that he was still alive, and 
that she was running the risk of committing bigamy. 

But—the murder? Who shot Deane that night? 
Did Mrs. Champernowne? Did Mr. Alfred? Or 
were both as innocent as he was, and did Deane, as 
Mellapont evidently thought fall into the hands of a 
gang of loafers, camping out in that sand-pit after 
the fair that had been held that day? That there 
were queer and desperate characters likely to be 
hanging about that night, Simmons knew well 


THE SAFETY PIN 


130 

enough, and it was a plausible theory to think that 
Deane had fallen a victim to such folk. But, know¬ 
ing what he now believed himself to know, it seemed 
to him that there was ground—solid ground—for 
suspicion about Mrs. Champernowne. Simmons 
was an observant young person who watched people 
and thought about what he saw. He believed that 
Mrs. Champernowne was a woman of great social 
ambitions. No doubt she wanted to be Lady Chil- 
derstone of Childerstone Park. And, if she was 
really Mrs. Arradeane and Arradeane’s life stood 
between her and the social status she wanted, and 
she had the chance of ridding herself of that obstacle, 
unsuspected—eh ? 

At this stage of thought, however, Simmons sud¬ 
denly remembered something which perplexed him. 
He had been present at several interviews between 
Miss Pretty and Shelmore; he had heard other con¬ 
versations between them through the convenient 
crevice in the partition wall. He remembered now 
that Shelmore, wanting to be fully posted in all the 
details of the case, had asked Miss Pretty several 
questions about Deane. Miss Pretty’s answers 
amounted to this—that Deane, accompanied by his 
wife had come to Cornwall some years previously, 
looking out for an industrial concern in which to in¬ 
vest money; that he had gone into partnership with 


TURN TO THE LADIES 


131 

Miss Pretty’s father in a tin mine; that Mr. and 
Mrs. Pretty were dead and had left Deane the 
guardianship of their daughter; that Mrs. Deane 
was also dead and finally, that, as far as Miss Pretty 
knew, Deane had no relations and had always told 
her that he hadn’t. 

This brought Simmons up against a brick wall— 
to use his own simile. If Deane was Arradeane who 
left a Mrs. Arradeane behind him at Normansholt, 
who was the Mrs. Deane who accompanied him to 
Camborne ? 

“That’s a stiff one!” mused Simmons. “There 
may be more in that little matter than I think for! 
What do the French say —Cherchez la femme! The 
devil of it is, in this case, where’s one to begin the 
search?” 

Then, with a sure instinct, he thought of Miss 
Pretty. After all, she was the only person handy, 
who knew anything about Deane’s life and doings 
at Camborne. Some of it she knew of her own 
knowledge; some of it she would have heard from 
Deane’s own lips. Miss Pretty was the person to 
approach and he decided to approach her. 

In common with most youths of his own age, 
Simmons spent his evenings out of doors. Some¬ 
times he looked in at the Club: sometimes he played 
billiards at one or other of the various licensed 


132 


THE SAFETY PIN 


houses: sometimes he dropped into the Chancellor 
for an hour’s gossip with anybody who happened to 
be there. No one, accordingly, who saw Simmons 
walk into the Chancellor one evening soon after his 
return home could have deduced from that that he 
was after anything particular: they would merely 
have thought that he was loafing round as most young 
men, shop-assistants, clerks and the like did of an 
evening. But on this occasion Simmons, instead of 
walking into the billiard room or the bar-parlour, 
turned into a little snuggery in the middle of the 
ground-floor, through the open door of which he 
could command a view of the door of the coffee- 
room. No one was in it at that moment, and he 
sat there alone, smoking a cigarette and sipping a 
glass of port and watching. He waited until the 
hotel guests, then dining, began to leave the coffee- 
room; watched until he saw Miss Pretty come out 
and go up the old oak stair. And then Simmons 
got hold of the chambermaid, Mary Sanders, who 
was passing his open door, and beckoned her inside 
the snuggery. 

“I say!” he whispered with a wink. “I want to 
see Miss Pretty—business, you know. Just go up 
and tell her that Mr. Hackdale of Mr. Shelmore’s, 
is here and wants a few words with her—there’s a 
dear!” 


TURN TO THE LADIES 


133 


Mary Sanders went upstairs; vanished in the 
shadows of the corridor; reappeared and motioned 
Simmons to advance. She took him to Miss Pretty’s 
private sitting-room, showed him in, and closed the 
door on his bowing form. Miss Pretty, in an easy 
chair by the fire, a book in her hand, stared at him. 
She had, of course, seen Simmons many a time at 
Shelmore’s office, and always wondered why his hair 
was so red, his eyes so closely set together and his 
nose so sharp. But realising that his very appear¬ 
ance indicated news she asked him to sit down. 
Simmons sat down, set his hat on his knees, laced 
his bony thin fingers over its cover, and regarded 
Miss Pretty as a fox might regard a rabbit-hole, 
wondering if he was going to get anything out of 
it. 

‘‘Yes?” said Miss Pretty. “Got a message from 
Mr. Shelmore?” 

“Er, no,” replied Simmons. “This is a private 
call, Miss Pretty—on my own, eh? You’ll oblige 
me by considering anything Pve got to say as strictly 
private and confidential. Pm sure?” He leaned 
forward, across his hat and sank his voice. “Miss 
Pretty!” he continued, “you’re very anxious to find 
out who murdered your guardian?” 

“Well?” said Miss Pretty. 

“It’s a difficult case,” said Simmons, certainly. 


134 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“A very difficult case. A clue is hard to find—I 
don’t think Mellapont’s got the ghost of one.” 

“Have you?” demanded Miss Pretty. 

Simmons lifted a hand and stroked his chin— 
thoughtfully. 

“I should not be averse to earning the reward 
you’ve offered,” he answered. “I have my own way 
to make in the world, Miss Pretty, and the money 
would help me in the career I’ve mapped out for my¬ 
self. Miss Pretty, will you do me the favour to 
treat this interview as absolutely confidential, and to 
answer one or two questions that I want to put to 
you?” 

“If my answers—and silence—will help you to 
find out who killed my guardian, yes!” said Miss 
Pretty. 

“I shouldn’t ask for either silence or answers if 
I hadn’t that object in view,” replied Simmons. 
“Well, Miss Pretty, you no doubt won’t under¬ 
stand my questions, but believe me, they’re distinct. 
Now first—do you remember Mr. Deane’s wife, 
who, I understand, has been dead some years?” 

“Remember Mrs. Deane ?” exclaimed Miss Pretty. 
“Why, of course! I knew her all my life, till she 
died.” 

“Was she of the same age as Mr. Deane? Or 
thereabouts?” asked Simmons. 


TURN TO THE LADIES 


135 

“No—much younger. Ten or twelve years 
younger.” 

“Was he very fond of her?” 

“Passionately! It was a terrible trouble to him 
when she died. I remember that well enough,” said 
Miss Pretty. “I was fifteen then.” 

“You don’t remember them coming to your part 
of the country?” asked Simmons. 

“Oh, dear no! But I’ve heard my mother—and 
father—talk about it. Mrs. Deane was a bride. 
They’d just been married.” 

“Could you tell me the exact date of their com¬ 
ing to Camborne, Miss Pretty?—the year, at any 
rate?” 

“I could—by referring to my business books, at 
home.” 

“One more question, then, Miss Pretty. Do you 
know what Mrs. Deane’s name was, before her mar¬ 
riage ?” 

“I do!” replied Miss Pretty promptly. “Mrs. 
Deane was a great reader and had a lot of books, 
chiefly poetry. When she died, Mr. Deane gave 
them to me. I have one of them here which I 
slipped in my bag when I left home. There’s the 
name—on the fly-leaf.” 

She picked up a slim, evidently well-thumbed 
volume from amongst a pile of books and magazines 


13^ 


THE SAFETY PIN 


on the table at her side and passed it across to her 
visitor. And Simmons looked—and committed a 
name to memory. 

“Nora Le Geyt,” he said musingly. “Um!— 
sounds like an actress’s name, that, Miss Pretty.” 

“Clever of you!” remarked Miss Pretty. “Mrs. 
Deane had been an actress! But—beyond her hus¬ 
band—nobody in our part knew that but me. She 
was very fond of me when I was a little girl, and I 
used to spend a lot of time at their house, which was 
close by ours. Mrs. Deane used to recite to m£ some¬ 
times, and when I got older I began to wonder about 
her. And once, not so very long before she died—she 
died suddenly—I said to her one day that I thought 
she must have been an actress at some time or other. 
And then she told me that she had been on the stage 
before she married Mr. Deane, but she didn’t want 
anybody about there to know of it, because Cornish 
people are very strait-laced and regard the theatre 
as a haunt of the Devil. But pray what’s all this 
got to do with my guardian’s murder?” 

Simmons raised a deprecating hand. 

“You must excuse me, Miss Pretty!” he said be¬ 
seechingly. “We lawyers are forced to cultivate— 
and to insist on—secrecy. Be patient with me, Miss 
Pretty! I’ll not attempt to conceal from you that 
I’ve a motive—vague, shapeless as yet, but undeni- 


TURN TO THE LADIES 


137 

ably there—about Mr. Deane’s sad fate, and I’ll 
work at it—yes, I’ll work at it, I assure you!” 

“You’ve something worth working for!” observed 
Miss Pretty in her driest manner. “You put your 
hands on the man who killed my guardian and get 
him arrested and hanged and there’ll be three thous¬ 
and pounds cash for you, Mr. Simmons. And you 
don’t pick that up every day!” 

Simmons was well aware of that. He went away 
from Miss Pretty more than ever resolved to get 
at the bottom of the mystery. He cudgelled his 
brains night and day to hit on fresh plans and new 
manoeuvres. And on the next Sunday evening he 
got a brilliant idea. Like most young men in 
Southernstowe Simmons regarded church attend¬ 
ance as an excellent means of seeing the young 
women of the place and of forming the acquaintance 
of attractive ones. Happening on this particular 
Sunday evening to drop in at St. Gregory’s where 
the best music in Southernstowe was to be heard, he 
noticed, in an adjacent seat, Mrs. Champernowne’s 
demure parlourmaid, Jane Pratt, and remembered 
that in other days (once he had attended an elemen¬ 
tary school) Jane had been one of his fellow-pupils. 
Jane, or Jennie, as Simmons knew her, was not so 
pretty as she was demure, and long before the ser¬ 
vice came to an end Simmons had made up his 


138 


THE SAFETY PIN 


mind to lay siege to her. He waylaid her at the 
porch and after a little badinage in the churchyard 
suggested that he should take her for a walk, and as 
Miss Pratt had no other young man in hand just 
then, and as Mr. Simmons was, if not a full-fledged 
lawyer, at heart a half-fledged one, and on Sundays 
wore a black-tailed coat, a silk hat, and lemon-colour¬ 
ed kid gloves, she consented. Under the light of a 
waning moon and in the privacy of a quiet lane that 
led to Ashenhurst House, Mr. Simmons and Miss 
Pratt became pleasantly confidential, and got on very 
well together—so much so that by the end of their 
walk they were arm-in-arm. But suddenly Miss 
Pratt screamed, shrinking closer to her escort’s side. 
She pointed at a fringe of bushes and stunted trees. 

“Oh! I never noticed where we were going!” 
she said. “That’s the sand-pit!—Where the mur¬ 
dered man was found!” 

“All right!” answered Mr. Simmons, with a 
manly arm round Miss Pratt’s slender waist. “No 
need to fear ghosts or anything else, when I’m 
about. Queer business that, wasn’t it? And so 
near your house, what?” 

“Yes,” said Miss Pratt, recovering her usual 
equanimity. “Wasn’t it? You know—I couldn’t 
tell you if you weren’t a lawyer, but I know lawyers 
never let out secrets—I’ve wondered a good deal 


TURN TO THE LADIES 


139 


about something I saw that Monday night. I saw 
Mrs. Champernowne talkirfg to a man in our 
grounds at twelve o’clock! Fact! I thought it was 
Sir Reville Childerstone, bringing her home, but it 

wasn’t. It was a stranger, and I’ve wondered-” 

Simmons drew Miss Pratt to a full stop. A long 
and whispered conversation took place between 
them. It ended by his telling Miss Pratt that “Mum 
was the word—mum!”—and they parted with a 
mutual understanding. Simmons went homeward 
something more than elated; from what he had 
heard he was now dead certain that Deane and 
Mrs. Champernowne had met on the night of the 
murder. 



CHAPTER XI 


THE GOLD WATCH 

glMMONS went home that night fully convinced 
that the secret of Deane’s murder rested with 
Mrs. Champernowne. He was already sure beyond 
doubt that Deane was Arradeane, once of Normans- 
holt; that Mrs. Champernowne was Mrs. Arra¬ 
deane ; that Mr. Alfred was the loafing, idle brother. 
There were all sorts of surmises arising out of this. 
Perhaps Mrs. Champernowne shot Deane with her 
own hand; it was not at all unlikely. Perhaps Mr. 
Alfred shot him; that was less likely, but still pos¬ 
sible. Perhaps some camper out, a derelict from the 
fair, shot him and robbed him—to Simmons that 
was a very insignificant detail in comparison with 
the fact that, so nearly as he could reckon things up, 
Arradeane had seen and recognised his wife at the 
Picture-House, and had subsequently had an inter¬ 
view with her in her own garden. Husband and 
wife had met!—that was a fact. As to what hap- 


THE GOLD WATCH 141 

pened after their meeting Simmons was yet in the 
dark, though he meant to emerge into the light. 
But already he had another surmise, and it grew 
with every hour—grew until it became an obsession. 
Did his brother, John Hackdale, know anything of 
Mrs. Champernowne’s secret? Was he privy to the 
fact that the murdered man had met Mrs. Champer- 
nowne on the night of his death? In short, was 
John conversant with the things that had gone on 
behind the rail which so far neither policeman nor 
civilians had managed to penetrate. 

Simmons had a name for everything, and he had 
a reason for suspecting his brother. In spite of his 
youth he was a hardened cynic. He was a sneering 
sceptic about altruism; nobody in his opinion ever 
did anything for nothing; whoever did was a fool. 
Whenever you saw a man suddenly advanced in 
station and material prosperity, said Simmons in his 
self-communings, you could be absolutely certain that 
it had been in somebody’s interest to advance him. 
And he put a question—what he called a very nasty 
question—to himself: Why, suddenly, without pre¬ 
face, on the spur of a moment, as it were, did Mrs. 
Champernowne lift John from an under-manager¬ 
ship at six pounds a week to a position which, he had 
already learnt, was to be worth two thousand a 
year ? What was the consideration, the inducement, 


142 


THE SAFETY PIN 


the quid pro quo —or quo pro quid? It was all 
damn rot, said Simmons, to be asked to believe that 
John's abilities and John’s cleverness as a business 
man had brought about this desirable preferment: 
damn rot to be invited to argue the proposition that 
John was the one man for the job. Simmons knew 
enough of the world to know that there were scores 
of men, hundreds of men, quite as well, if not far 
better fitted than John for the sort of manager¬ 
secretary to the new company who would have been 
glad, joyful, eager to fill it for two-thirds the salary 
that John was to have. No!—tell all that to the 
marines! He knew better than to believe it. There 
were reasons for this sudden advancement—wasn’t 
it significant that it had been made the very day 
after the discovery of Deane’s dead body? John 
knew something! and the new post, the handsome 
salary, were in the nature of bribes to keep his mouth 
shut. But what did he know? 

“That’s for me to find out!” muttered Simmons 
as he put his key in the latch of his boarding-house 
door. “My interest! Look after number one, Sim 
old man!—-number one is the closest friend you’ve 
got!” 

He had been learning that precious truth from 
John all his life, and it had become a gospel to him: 
it was indeed his whole creed. He felt no gratitude 


THE GOLD WATCH 


143 


to John for feeding him, clothing him, educating 
him, starting him in life: John had done all that, 
said Simmons, in his own self-interest; it would 
never have done for Southernstowe people to be able 
to say that John Hackdale, smart and pushing as he 
was, allowed his younger brother to go about with 
holes in his trousers, unschooled, unlaunched in life 
—John knew that nothing pays so well as keeping 
up appearances. So at any rate argued Simmons, 
and he felt no compunction in suspecting John of 
some sort of complicity in this Arradeane-Champer- 
nowne mystery, nor in beginning to watch him close¬ 
ly. There was a goal in front of Simmons through 
which he meant to kick fortune’s football, and hang¬ 
ing on its cross-bar was a big placard, labelled £3000. 

But Simmons would not have been so comfortable 
in his own mind as he was after that Sunday evening 
stroll with Mrs. Champernowne’s demure parlour¬ 
maid if he had known that within twenty miles of 
him there was another sly and crafty dog on the 
same trail as himself. Bartlett! That worthy, after 
reading and memorising the bill which Pemberton 
wanted him to distribute, had begun to think rapidly. 
He kept his promise to John Hackdale, and went 
away from Southernstowe by the last train, but 
before that train reached Portsmouth, a short stage 
of eighteen miles, he had decided that he was neither 


144 


THE SAFETY PIN 


going to New York nor to Southampton—let 
Southampton and New York go to—anywhere! For 
Bartlett, loafer and ne’er-do-well as he had been of 
late years, had in his time been an unusually sharp 
and shrewd man, and a recent devotion to rum had 
not quite impaired his shrewdness. He saw through 
things now. There was a secret—and he had some 
sort of a key to it. He had thought at first that 
John Hackdale had requested his silence so that no 
scandal or questioning should occur to vex Mrs. 
Champernowne, Mayor of Southernstowe. But 
now he saw that there was more. He was 
being hurried out of the way—bribed to get out 
of the way. A hundred and fifty cash—another 
hundred and fifty to come!—very good, but . . . 
not enough! By no means enough . . . especially 
in view of that reward bill. America?—no! Ports¬ 
mouth, for the time being, and a snug lodging, where 
he could lie low and mature his plans—either for 
blackmailing Mrs. Champernowne or doing some¬ 
thing towards getting Miss Pretty’s money. 

Bartlett stopped at a cheap hotel that night, and 
waking early next morning reviewed the situation 
and made several resolutions, largely consequent 
upon the fact that he had a hundred and fifty pounds 
in his pocket. He would take a modest lodging in 
Portsmouth. He would buy himself a new suit 


THE GOLD WATCH 


145 


of clothes, new ties, new foot-wear. He would live 
quietly and be careful about his rum. He would 
nurse his brain and sharpen his wits. And he would 
get and study the Southernstowe local papers and 
any other newspapers in which there were particulars 
of the Sand-Pit Murder, as the Deane affair had 
come to be called, and prime himself for a first 
frontal attack—the thing was to be armed with 
circumstance. Of one thing he was resolved—he 
was going to make money out of this, whether he 
got it from Miss Pretty or from Mrs. Champer- 
nowne. The money already in his pocket came 
from Mrs. Champemowne, of course!—not from 
John Hackdale. And—to use a hackneyed phrase, 
he muttered with a cynical laugh—there was plenty 
more where it came from. Blackmail-money, or 
reward-money, it was all one. 

Bartlett’s will-power was still sufficiently strong 
to enable him to carry out his resolutions. He found a 
quiet and comfortable lodging in Portsmouth, in the 
cottage of a widow woman; he replenished his ward¬ 
robe; he cut down his rum to a reasonable allow¬ 
ance; his landlady knew him for a quiet, 
well-behaved man who took his meals at the proper 
times, walked out a good deal, paid his bill promptly 

every Saturday morning at breakfast, and bought 

f- 

and read a multitude of newspapers. He called him- 


146 


THE SAFETY PIN 


self Barton there, and said he’d recently come into a 
little money after a life of hard work, and for a 
time wanted a bit of quietude. Quiet enough he 
was, reading his papers and snipping paragraphs 
out of them which he stored away in his old pocket- 
book. Those paragraphs were all about the Deane 
murder and the inquest, and there was nothing new 
in them, nothing much unknown to their reader and 
preserver. But one night, opening the Portsmouth 
evening paper after his tea-supper, Bartlett read 
of the new offer made by Miss Pretty, and his mouth 
watered more than ever. £3000! He would have 
handed Mrs. Champernowne over to rack, rope, 
knife, and fire for one-half of it, cash down. 

Bartlett went out for his usual morning walk 
next day, to think things over. Should he return 
to Southernstowe and tell Miss Pretty what he really 
knew ? Supposing she and her legal adviser and the 
police followed up the slight clue which he could 
give her would he get the reward? Anyway, there 
was one thing he could get and at once,—the 
thousand pounds offered to anybody who saw Deane 
on the night of the murder. He saw Deane—he, 
Bartlett! But suddenly, and as his heart warmed at 
the thought of the money, he turned cold—suppos¬ 
ing that Miss Pretty insisted on his giving proof 
that he saw Deane? It was easy enough for him 


THE GOLD WATCH 


147 


to affirm that he saw Deane, but how was he going 
to prove that he did? Well, after all, it might be 
some proof if he also proved that John Hackdale 
paid him money, a lot of money, to keep a quiet 
tongue and go right away—but there again, perhaps 
Hackdale would deny that he had ever done such 
a thing—might indeed say that what had been done 
for him had been done by Mrs. Champernowne out 
of charity to a broken-down Southernstowe man to 
help him to a new start. Perhaps the best thing to 
do would be to go to Mrs. Champernowne at once 
and blackmail her, giving her the option of squaring 
him rather than that he should resort to Miss Pretty. 
But—he hesitated. Not so very long before this 
episode, Bartlett had been in slight trouble with the 
Southernstowe police, and had had to appear before 
the magistrates, Mrs. Champernowne, as Mayor 
presiding. He remembered the lady’s stern, un¬ 
compromising manner—and he shrank from the 
idea of meeting her again. No! but to go to Miss 
Pretty, and tell what he knew. If only he had 
more to tell! 

Bartlett’s constitutional took him, mechanically, to 
his usual house of call—a tavern which stood in a 
busy thoroughfare. He supplied himself with a 
glass of his favourite drink, and a tumbler in hand 
stood at the bow-window of the bar-parlour, over- 


148 


THE SAFETY PIN 


looking the crowded street and meditating anew on 
his plans and perplexities. And suddenly he started, 
at sight of two people whom he, as a Southemstowe 
man, knew well enough. He looked and looked— 
and began to wonder. 

The two people were a man and a woman— 
Kight, the night-porter of the Chancellor Hotel, 
and Mary Sanders, the chambermaid. They were 
both what Bartlett called dressed up in their best 
clothes and evidently were out for the day, pleasur¬ 
ing. But Bartlett’s sharp eyes, watching their move¬ 
ments across the street, saw that they were looking 
for something. They came along the pavement, 
staring at the various shops—suddenly they paused 
before a watchmaker’s and jeweller’s establishment. 
As soon as they caught sight of it they backed away 
and had what appeared to be an anxious debate, 
which was finally ended by Mary Sanders’ leaving 
Kight and going into the jeweller’s shop. She was 
in there some time; Kight hung about. After a 
while she came out and rejoined her companion; 
another debate followed, in the course of which 
Kight seemed to be expressing disapproval of 
something said to him; evidently on her persua¬ 
sion, he went back to the shop with her; the two 
remained there ten minutes longer; they then came 
out and went away down the street together. And 


THE GOLD WATCH 


149 


Bartlett, swallowing what was left of his rum, 
slipped out and followed them at a safe distance. 

Kight and his companion walked slowly along 
until they came to a bank. The woman entered, 
Kight hung about outside. He was not kept wait¬ 
ing long; Mary Sanders came out again, stuffing 
into her hand-bag what looked to Bartlett like a 
bundle of notes. She nodded in a satisfied, re-as¬ 
sured sort of fashion at Kight; together they went 
away in the direction of the seafront, where the 
pleasure-part of the town is. And Bartlett let them 
go, and turned back towards his tavern, pondering. 

The comparative temperance to which Bartlett had 
forced himself since his coming to Portsmouth had 
sharpened his naturally acute senses. He was think¬ 
ing hard and shrewdly now. He had read and re¬ 
read the whole thing by heart, and he was now 
going over the evidence given by the night-porter 
and the chambermaid, with special recollection of 
what she said about seeing Deane’s money and 
jewellery lying on the dressing-table when she took 
him his hot milk on the evening of the murder. Now 
supposing . . . supposing .... 

After a few minutes of quick thought Bartlett came 
to a halt. He stood for a moment, appraising him¬ 
self. He was decently, even well dressed. He knew 
that he looked eminently respectable. His nose had 


150 


THE SAFETY PIN 


been inclined to redness, and his eyes to a bloodshot 
state when he left Southernstowe; those signs of 
indulgence had vanished. He knew himself, as 
having once been in a better position, to have a 
good manner and a good address; he had the com¬ 
fortable consciousness of having had a superior edu¬ 
cation. And suddenly, confident of his power to 
play a part, he strode forward and walked boldly 
into the jeweller’s shop which Kight and Mary 
Sanders had left not twenty minutes before. The 
jeweller, a mild, spectacled individual, stood behind 
his counter, examining some of his goods; further 
away an assistant was attending to a customer. 

Bartlett went up to the principal. 

“Can I have a word with you—in private?” he 
asked musingly. / 

The jeweller looked a little surprised, but he at 
once stepped along the counter and opening a door 
at the rear of the shop, motioned his visitor to enter. 
Bartlett entered and gave him a look which was in¬ 
tended to suggest his desire for confidential talk. 

“Yes?” said the jeweller. 

“The fact is,” answered Bartlett. “I’m a private 
enquiry agent—on a very important and delicate 
job. You had a young woman in here just now 
whom I knew; I’ve got my eye on her. Now, be¬ 
tween you and me, what did she want?” 


THE GOLD WATCH 


151 

The jeweller had taken stock of Bartlett. Cer¬ 
tainly, he looked the sort of man that you would 
expect a private enquiry agent to be; there was that 
air about him. “I hope there’s nothing wrong,” he 
replied, anxiously. “If you want to know, the 
young woman came to sell a watch.” 

“A gold watch?—valuable?” suggested Bartlett 
readily. 

“It was a gold watch, certainly,” answered the 
jeweller. “And—yes, valuable. She told me it had 
recently been left to her—a legacy, you know—by 
an uncle. But she said that being a working woman, 
she’d rather have its worth than the watch itself, 
and she asked me to buy it.” 

“And—you bought?” asked Bartlett. 

“I did! I gave her a thoroughly good price, too. 
fifty pounds,” replied the jeweller. “An open 
cheque. If there’s anything wrong.” 

“Too late to stop your cheque,” interrupted Bart¬ 
lett. “I followed them to the bank. She’d a man 
with her-” 

“I know—her husband—he came in,” remarked 
the jeweller. “But-” 

“No more her husband than I am!” said Bartlett. 
“Well—I’m afraid that watch is a stolen one. But 
I can settle that point for you within twenty-four 
hours. And if it belongs to the person I feel sure 




152 


THE SAFETY PIN 


it does belong to, you won’t be the loser; I’ll guar¬ 
antee that. Now—not a word to anyone till you 
see me about this time to-morrow. ,, 

The jeweller looked relieved. But he was 
obviously puzzled. 

‘‘If you suspected these people why didn’t you stop 
them?” he asked. “Perhaps they’ll-” 

Bartlett tapped him on the arm. 

“That’ll come after I’ve been here again,” he said, 
with a wink. “I can put my hand on both of ’em 
at an hour’s notice. They haven’t the ghost of a 
notion that I’m on this track. Take care of the 
watch till you see me at this time to-morrow.” 

Then he went away and back to his lodging and 
his dinner, and that over he sat down and wrote a 
carefully worded letter to Miss Cynthia Pretty, at 
the Chancellor Hotel, Southernstowe, signing it in 
his assumed name of Barton. In it he said that he 
had an important communication to make to her in 
regard to the late tragedy and would she meet him 
at Portsmouth Town station at 10.30 next morning, 
and in the meantime treat his letter as being abso¬ 
lutely private and confidential ? 

Miss Pretty met him. She was eager and curious: 
Bartlett sized her up in two minutes, and knew that 
she would be a suitable gold-mine to him. Suave 
and respectful he gave her a brief account of yester- 



THE GOLD WATCH 


153 


day’s episode and conducted her to the jeweller’s 
shop. In the little parlour the jeweller produced his 
purchase. Miss Pretty gave one look at it and 
turned pale. 

“Good Heavens!” she said in a hushed voice. 
“Yes!—without doubt, that’s my guardian’s watch!” 


CHAPTER XII 


ARRESTED 

DARTLETT felt himself rising to great heights 
in the profession to which he had volunteered 
twenty-four hours previously. He turned to Miss 
Pretty with a warning and solemn air. 

“Don’t make any mistake, miss!” he said. “Be 
certain! After all, gold watches are all very much 
alike. You’re sure this is the late Mr. Deane’s 
watch ?” 

“As certain as I am that I’m standing here!” as¬ 
sured Miss Pretty. “I ought to be!—I’ve seen it 
hundreds of times ever since I was a little girl. That 
watch belonged to my late guardian. And you say,” 
she continued, turning to the jeweller, “that it was 
sold to you yesterday by Mary Sanders, chamber¬ 
maid at the Chancellor Hotel in Southernstowe ? 
Then-” 

“I didn’t know the woman’s name, madam,” in¬ 
terrupted the jeweller. “She appeared to be a 
thoroughly respectable young person, and told me 


154 



ARRESTED 


155 

what I regarded as a thoroughly satisfactory story. 
But of course if you require the watch-” 

“Oh, there’s no doubt about the watch!” said Miss 
Pretty, confidently. “A good many people beside 
myself could identify it. What’s to be done?” she 
asked, turning to Bartlett. “The police?” 

“Certainly, miss!” replied Bartlett. “The police, 
of course—at Southernstowe. Superintendent Mel- 
lapont.” He spoke with readiness and confidence, 
having already, satisfied himself on the way from 
the station that Miss Pretty would stand to her word 
and pay him the thousand pounds reward for the 
discovery of the watch. “We must go there at once. 
You can make it convenient to go with me?” he 
went on, turning to the jeweller. “And, of course, 
you’ll bring the watch with you.” 

The jeweller began to suggest inconvenience and to 
murmur his hopes that he wouldn’t be the loser by 
all this. But Bartlett waved an authoritative hand. 

“I told you yesterday that you shouldn’t lose by 
the transaction,” he said. “This lady will see to that 
—fifty pounds is nothing to her in comparison to 
the relief of getting a clue to her guardian’s as¬ 
sailants. Of course you must come with us to 
Southernstowe—you’ll have to identify the young 
woman.” 

“Needs must!” responded the jeweller and began 



156 


THE SAFETY PIN 


to give instructions to his assistant. “I suppose 
there’ll be a police-court case?” he asked as he put 
the watch in his pocket and picked up his hat and 
overcoat. “That’ll mean more waste of time!” 

“No waste of time, sir, in serving the cause of 
justice,” observed Bartlett in his best manner. “It’s 
a citizen’s duty, that, sir. And this’ll be not only 
a police-court but an assize-court affair!” 

The jeweller muttered something which appeared 
to indicate his regret that Mary Sanders had not 
taken her wares elsewhere, but he accompanied 
Bartlett and Miss Pretty to the station and journeyed 
with them to Southernstowe. Bartlett had never 
been back to the little town since his hurried de¬ 
parture at John Hackdale’s request. He had slunk 
away that night, reaching the station by back lanes 
and obscure alleys, but now he marched boldly up 
the street, conscious that many people who saw and 
recognised him were wondering at his new clothes, 
well-to-do appearance, and companionship with Miss 
Pretty. And in the very centre of the town, not 
thirty yards away from the police station, John 
Hackdale came suddenly out of a bank and full upon 
Bartlett, Miss Pretty, and the jeweller. He stopped 
dead and seized Bartlett’s arm. 

“You?” he exclaimed. “Here? What’re 

_ if 


you 


ARRESTED 


157 


Bartlett shook his arm free and moved on. 

“Can’t attend to you at present, Mr. Hackdale!” 
he said, with a mixture of condescension and ef¬ 
frontery. “Important business—give you a minute 
or two later on.” 

He marched forward, motioning his companions 
to follow. Hackdale, surprised out of his wits, stood 
open-mouthed staring after him and them. He 
stared until he saw all three vanish under the portico 
of the City Hall and enter the police station: then 
he drew a long breath. 

“What the devil does that mean!” he said half- 
aloud. “Bartlett—who ought to be in New York— 
with Miss Pretty and a stranger? And—going into 
the police station? What infernal trick is he up to? 
Not gone!—after all? Is he going to-” 

Just then Simmons came up, a parcel of red-taped 
legal-looking documents in one hand. His brother 
seized him by the shoulder. 

“Sim!” he exclaimed. “Have—have you heard 
anything at Shelmore’s about this Deane affair? 
Has Miss Pretty been there—this morning—recent- 
ly?” 

“Not for some days,” answered Simmons, quick 
to notice his brother’s agitation. “No—we’ve heard 
nothing. What about Miss Pretty?” 

John Hackdale was still staring at the portico 



158 


THE SAFETY PIN 


under which the strangely assorted trio had disap¬ 
peared. He nodded at it. 

“Miss Pretty, a strange man, and that good-for- 
nothing Bartlett have just passed me, and gone into 
the police station!” he said. “Something’s-up! But 


“Bartlett?” interrupted Simmons, with a start. 
“Jim Bartlett. Ah!—somebody was saying last 
night-” 

“Saying what?” snapped John. “What?” 

“Oh, only that Bartlett hadn’t been seen about 
lately,” continued Simmons. “Bartlett, eh? And 
with Miss Pretty and a stranger? Um!—did the 
stranger look like—say, a detective?” 

John Hackdale made no reply. He was still star¬ 
ing at the portico, and Simmons was quick to see 
that he was upset and nervous. Suddenly he turned 
on Simmons. 

“Look here, Sim!” he said rapidly. “Shelmore 
is Miss Pretty’s solicitor. Run and tell him what 
I’ve told you, and get him to come round to the 
police station: they’ll be here with Mellapont. Shel- 
more’ll find out what they’re there for, and he’ll tell 
you. Then, you can tell me—at dinner-time. Hurry 
up, Sim!” 

Simmons nodded and went away towards Shel- 
more’s office, thinking. What made John so pal- 




ARRESTED 


159 


pably anxious to find out why Miss Pretty and Bart¬ 
lett, accompanied by a strange man, had gone to the 
police? Why did John look frightened? What did 
John know about Bartlett—or, more to the point, 
did Bartlett know anything about John? Sly, crafty, 
plausible beggar, Bartlett, at any time, and damned 
sharp when he wasn’t in rum, said Simmons to him¬ 
self as he climbed Shelmore’s stair—if Bartlett had 
gone to Mellapont in company with Miss Pretty, 
then, by George! Bartlett knew something—and 
what might it be ? In order to find that out, he told 
Shelmore of what had just been reported to him. 
To his surprise Shelmore remained fixed in his chair 
and showed no signs of getting out of it. 

“No concern of ours, Hackdale,” he said 
brusquely. “Have you got those deeds from Par- 
miter & Pulsford?” 

Simmons was taken aback. Intensely inquisitive 
and curious himself, he found it impossible to under¬ 
stand anybody else being otherwise. But Shelmore 
was evidently unconcerned and he had to produce 
his deeds and what was more, to pore over them for 
the rest of the morning—wondering, all the time, 
what was going on at the police station, and why his 
brother John had been so anxious to know. 

If either John Hackdale or his younger brother 
had been able to see through brick walls into the 


i6o 


THE SAFETY PIN 


superintendent’s private room, they would have seen 
Mellapont at his desk, listening in silence to the story 
which Bartlett, as spokesman, told in full, with due 
elaboration of his own part in it. Mellapont knew 
Bartlett—had known him as a broken man, a loafer, 
a drinker, a down-at-heels and out-at-elbow man, for 
two years, ever since he himself came to the town, 
and all the time Bartlett was talking he was wonder¬ 
ing at this change in him—here he was, highly re¬ 
spectable, improved in looks, confident, self-assured, 
and revealing considerable powers—how, asked Mel¬ 
lapont to himself, had this come about, and (more 
important still) where had Bartlett got the funds 
from, which he had evidently expended on his ward¬ 
robe? But he kept this to himself; all he asked of 
Bartlett when that worthy had made an end of his 
extraordinary statement was one personal question. 

“Are you living in Portsmouth now?” 

“Been living there for the last two or three weeks, 
Mr. Superintendent,” replied Bartlett, promptly. “I 
came into a little money, sir—and left—er, the old 
surroundings.” 

There was a sort of suggestion in his tone that 
this was a new Bartlett, and not the old ne’er-do- 
well, and Mellapont nodded and glanced at the gold 
watch, which had been produced and now lay on 
his desk. 


ARRESTED 


161 


“I suppose there’s no doubt whatever, Miss Pretty, 
that this is the watch that belonged to Mr. Deane?” 
he asked. 

“None!” replied Miss Pretty. 

“Wearing it when he came here?” suggested Mel- 
lapont. 

“He was wearing it when he left Camborne,” said 
Miss Pretty. “The last time I saw it was at Bristol. 
Mr. Deane and I left Camborne together. We 
stayed a day or two at Exeter and then went on to 
Bristol. We stayed there three days, looking round; 
then I went to stay with a friend at Bath, and Mr. 
Deane went forward, alone, to the Midlands and the 
North. I last saw the watch at the hotel at Bris¬ 
tol—and he took it out at breakfast and corrected 
it to railway time. Of course, it’s the watch!” 

“You can identify the young woman who sold 
it to you?” asked Mellapont, turning to the jeweller. 
“To be sure!—well, I’ll have to bring her and this 
man here. If you then will wait-” 

He rose from his desk with the air of a man who 
faces a more than ordinarily important task,—and 
again bidding his visitor remain there until he came 
back, went out. The industrial strike in a far-away 
county which had deprived him of his regular forces 
was now over, and all his men were back and the 
special constables relieved of their duties. Mellapont 



THE SAFETY PIN 


162 

detected an old, experienced plain-clothes man, one 
Nicholson, and giving him a brief outline of what 
he had just heard, set out for the Chancellor Hotel. 
He and Nicholson entered by the door at the back 
of the courtyard, and the first person they saw was 
Belling, talking just then to a tradesman at the en¬ 
trance to his private parlour. He caught Mellapont’s 
eye, understood the look in it, dismissed the trades¬ 
man and beckoned the two policemen into privacy. 

“Here’s a development at last, Belling,” said Mel- 
lapont when the door was closed. “Now listen! 
You remember that Deane had valuables on him 
when he was last seen here—diamond pin, diamond 
ring, gold watch? Of course!—well, the watch was 
sold to a Portsmouth jeweller, yesterday! By whom 
do you think?” 

“Not—not by anybody here?” asked Belling, 
nervously. 

“Here, right enough!” answered Mellapont. 
“That chambermaid of yours, Mary Sanders!” 
Belling stared and stared. 

“You don’t say!” he exclaimed. “By—her?” 

“Fact!” said Mellapont. “And she had with her, 
at the time, another servant of yours. Right!” 

Belling stared harder than ever. 

“God bless me!” he murmured. “You don’t mean 
it!” 


ARRESTED 


163 

“That, too, is a fact,” replied Mellapont. “Now 
then, Belling, where are they? For—I want ’em!” 

“The girl will be at her work—first floor,” an¬ 
swered Belling. “Kight’ll be asleep, I suppose, in 
his room. I can have him fetched down. She can 
be here at once. Shall I send for her?” 

“Kight first,” said Mellapont. “Get him here— 
then, so soon as he is here, fetch him in.” 

Belling went away troubled and perplexed and 
the two policemen sat down and waited. Within ten 
minutes the landlord went back with Kight, who 
was obviously half-asleep, and had dressed hurried¬ 
ly. Mellapont nodded to him. 

“Morning, Kight,” he said affably. “I just 
wanted to have a word or two with you about that 
Deane affair. If you please, Mr. Belling,” he went 
on, with a glance at the landlord. “Now!” 

Belling took the hint and again left the room. 
But this time he was back again at once, ushering 
in the chambermaid. She entered unsuspectingly, 
but as soon as she caught sight of the night-porter 
she turned pale and gasped, and Kight seeing her, 
just as suddenly swore under his breath. 

“Just so!” said Mellapont. “But that’ll do no 
good, Kight! Now then, we may be well out with 
it. Mary Sanders, you sold a gold watch for fifty 
pounds to a Portsmouth jeweller yesterday morn- 


164 


THE SAFETY PIN 


ing, and you Kight, were with her—you waited 
outside the shop while she completed the transaction 
and you went with her to the bank on which the 
jeweller had given her an open bearer cheque. Now 
that watch has been identified as the watch that Mr. 
Deane, the murdered man, was wearing. What have 
you both got to say about it?” 

He looked from one to the other, but his eyes 
rested finally on the chambermaid. She was red 
and white by turns now, and trembling all over. 
Her lips parted—but Kight got in a word before 
she could speak. 

“Say nothing!” he growled. “Nothing! Keep 
your mouth shut. They’ll get nothing out of 
me!” 

“Very well,” remarked Mellapont. “Then you’ll 
both come with me to the police station. No!— 
you’re not going out of the room to get other 
clothes, nor anything else! It’s only a step down 
the street from your back entrance, and you’ll come 
as you are—anything you want can be sent to you 
afterwards. Come on—now—no nonsense!” 

Miss Pretty and her companions, waiting in the 
superintendent’s room, at last heard the tread of 
feet, and presently saw the night-porter, scowling 
and defiant, and the chambermaid, nervous and 
frightened, ushered in. At sight of the jeweller, 


ARRESTED 165 

Mary Sanders showed signs of collapsing. But she 
turned on Right. 

“I told you how it would be!” she burst out. “I 
knew it would go wrong. Why not tell him and 
her-” 

“Hold your tongue!” interrupted Right angrily. 
“Let ’em prove anything they have against us!— 
that’s their job. What do you charge us with?” 
he went on scowling at Mellapont. 

“Murder, I reckon! Likely thing, isn’t it?” 

“I shall charge you with being in unlawful pos¬ 
session of that article, my lad, to start with,” replied 
Mellapont, pointing to the gold watch. “We’ll see 
about the rest of it, later on.” 

“Going to lock us up, I suppose ?” sneered Right. 
“All right mister!—but I reckon there’s justice for 
us as for everybody!” 

“You’ll get plenty of justice, my lad, before you’ve 
done with it,” retorted Mellapont. “So you’ll 
neither of you think better of things and say a word 
or two? All right, then . . 

When Right and the chambermaid had been 
safely bestowed under lock and key, and Mellapont 
had given Bartlett, Miss Pretty, and the jeweller 
strict injunctions about appearing before the magis¬ 
trates next morning, the last-mentioned then went 
away. Bartlett and the jeweller had a short inter- 



THE SAFETY PIN 


166 

view with Miss Pretty in her private sitting-room 
at the hotel, and left it in high satisfaction with 
themselves, the jeweller, indeed, suggesting to Bart¬ 
lett that they should celebrate the morning’s work in 
the bar-parlour over a bottle of the best, but Bartlett 
firmly refused and hurried him away to the station 
by a quiet by-lane. Bartlett, from Miss Pretty’s 
window, had seen John Hackdale hanging about— 
in wait for him. But Bartlett had no wish to meet 
John Hackdale at present, and he avoided him and 
went off to Portsmouth. And John, anxious, per¬ 
turbed, and wondering, went home to dinner. To 
him, eventually, came Simmons; he turned eagerly 
as Simmons walked in, and the younger brother 
could not fail to see the eagerness. But Simmons 
had heard nothing up to then, and by that time was 
as inquisitive about the whole thing as John was. 
The two walked back to the centre of the city to¬ 
gether after dinner, and as they neared the City 
Hall, became aware of a crowd outside it. A labour¬ 
ing man of whom John asked information turned on 
him wonderingly. 

“Ain’t you heard, Mr. Hackdale?” he answered. 
“It’s all over the town! They’ve collared Charlie 
Right and Polly Sanders for the murder of that 
stranger gentleman! They’re locked up in there— 
both!” 


CHAPTER XIII 


STILL OPEN 

QIMMONS turned sharply on his brother as the 
^ labouring man let out his last words. He saw 
John start; he saw a curious look cross his face. It 
seemed to Simmons to be a compound of relief and 
perplexity—but as they moved away from the crowd 
the perplexity appeared to gain the upper hand. 

“Kight and Mary Sanders!” said John in a 
hushed voice. “Night-porter and chambermaid? 
How could they murder him?—they’d been in the 
hotel all night? And—he was murdered out of the 
hotel.” 

“How do you know that?” asked Simmons with 
something very like a sneer. “Found in the sand¬ 
pit, yes!—but the body might have been carried 
there. However, we shall hear more to-morrow— 
they’ll be brought up before the magistrates in the 
morning.” 

“To-morrow!” exclaimed John. He was im¬ 
patient, being still uneasy and perturbed about the 
167 


168 THE SAFETY PIN 

reappearance of Bartlett. “Look here!” he went 
on. “You know all the police, Sim—couldn’t you 
get hold of a bit of information this afternoon?” 

“Don’t know ’em as well as you do,” retorted 
Simmons. “You’ve been a special constable. Try 
Mellapont. But in my opinion they’ll tell nothing— 
yet.” 

John Hackdale had no desire to try Mellapont— 
he had his own reasons for not showing any par¬ 
ticular interest in the new development. But he 
spent an uneasy afternoon and unquiet night won¬ 
dering what share Bartlett had in all this and if 
Bartlett was going to let out that he’d received a 
hundred and fifty pounds from him to go away and 
keep his mouth shut. And at ten o’clock next morn¬ 
ing he was at the magistrate’s court, one of a crowd 
eager and anxious to hear the charges against Kight 
and the chambermaid. 

There was something of a sensation and a disap¬ 
pointment in court when the two prisoners were 
charged, not with the murder of James Deane, but 
with being in unlawful possession of certain pro¬ 
perty of his—to wit, a gold watch. But John Hack- 
dale felt neither disappointment nor surprise; he 
had been reckoning up things and facts, and it 
seemed to him impossible that this capital charge 
could be brought against Kight and Mary Sanders. 


STILL OPEN 169 

There were, however, two matters which did sur¬ 
prise him—the first, that Mrs. Champernowne was 
not on the bench of magistrates, though he knew 
her to be in town; the second that Bartlett, though 
present in court, was not called upon to give any 
evidence; the evidence, indeed, was little more than 
formal—Hackdale got it into his head that Mella- 
pont, for some purpose of his own, was keeping 
something back. All that Mellapont did was to out¬ 
line the case against his prisoners in brief fashion; 
to call the jeweller to prove that they offered him 
the watch for purchase and that he bought it; and 
to put Miss Pretty into the witness-box to swear 
that the watch was certainly that belonging to her late 
guardian. All this over, he asked for an adjourn¬ 
ment for a week, remarking that a good deal of the 
late Mr. Deane's property was still missing, and that 
so far the accused persons had refused to make any 
statement. 

But at this point the first sensation of the day 
came. Before the presiding magistrate could reply 
to Mellapont’s application Kight suddenly turned 
to his companion and whispered to her. She nodded 
vigorously as if in emphatic approval of whatever 
he had said, and Kight looked down at the bench 
pointing at the same time to the table at which 
several local solicitors were sitting. 


iyo 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“We want a lawyer!” he said boldly. “We want 
Mr. Shelmore!—to talk to him.” 

The magistrate looked at Mellapont, who was still 
on his legs. And Mellapont, after a questioning 
glance at the dock, nodded—sat down. 

“We had better adjourn for half an hour, to give 
Mr. Shelmore an opportunity of talking to the de¬ 
fendants,” said the magistrate. He glanced at the 
solicitor’s table. “That is,” he added, “if Mr. Shel¬ 
more is disposed.” 

“We’ve plenty of money to pay Mr. Shelmore,” 
said Kight, still bold and apparently unabashed. 
“We want him and no other.” 

Shelmore, who disliked criminal practice, and had 
only gone to the court at the request of Miss Pretty, 
looked anything but pleased at his direct request, 
but he rose, went over to the dock and held a whis¬ 
pered consultation with Kight at the end of which 
he turned to the bench and asked to be allowed to 
see the prisoners in an adjacent writing-room. 
Thither he presently retired with them and a couple 
of policemen; the magistrates left their chairs and 
disappeared behind the curtains, and the crowded 
court left to itself, began to speculate on what it 
was going to hear next. For it was very evident 
that Kight and Mary Sanders were going to tell— 
something. 


STILL OPEN 


171 

Half an hour went by. Three men amongst the 
audience were debating and speculating in the secret 
chambers of their own minds on the probabilities 
of the forthcoming revelation. How would it affect 
himself and Mrs. Champernowne, wondered John 
Hackdale. Should he learn anything by which he 
might profit, wondered Simmons. Were the prison¬ 
ers going to tell anything that would interfere with 
his plan of campaign wondered Bartlett. All these 
turned furtive glances on Shelmore as at last he 
came back into court—and learned nothing from 
what they saw: Shelmore was apparently unmoved. 

The prisoners returned to the dock; the magis¬ 
trates filed in again and Shelmore rose to his feet 
at the solicitors’ table and faced him. 

“I have now had the opportunity of consulting 
with the two defendants,” he said in quiet level 
tones, “and I may as well tell your Worships that on 
my advice they will withdraw their previous plea 
and will now plead guilty to the charge of being in 
unlawful possession of the gold watch which, they 
fully admit, was the property of the late Mr. James 
Deane. Also they have authorised me to put before 
your Worships a full and, as they allege, a completely 
truthful account of the way in which they became 
possessed of this watch and of some other valuables, 
of the present whereabouts of which they have 


172 


THE SAFETY PIN 


informed me. In short, your Worships, the de¬ 
fendants desire to make a clean breast of everything; 
they also desire to make reparation. The fifty 
pounds obtained by the sale of the watch is still un¬ 
touched and will be given up; the other valuables 
will also be given up. I put all this before your 
Worships, because as it will be necessary for you, 
the prisoners being willing to plead guilty, to com¬ 
mit them to the Quarter Sessions for sentence, I 
intend, in view of their wish to repair what harm 
they have done, to apply to you for bail-” 

Mellapont rose quickly from his seat. 

“I shall oppose any application for bail, your 
Worships,” he said. “There may be a graver charge 
arising out of this. I shall strongly oppose any such 
application!” 

“I have no knowledge of what is in Superinten¬ 
dent Mellapont’s mind,” remarked Shelmore. 

“I shall certainly make my application when I 
have finished what I am going to say. Your Lord- 
ships!—I propose, at the wish of both defendants, 
to tell you the full story as to their acquisition and 
possession of these valuables. They are both quite 
aware that they have done wrong in yielding to a 
sudden temptation, and they have nothing to offer 
in extenuation, though each has a right—which can 
be exercised afterwards—of bringing forward evi- 



STILL OPEN 


173 


dence as to previous good character. Now as to the 
factor—it will be within the recollection of your 
Worships—it is indeed common knowledge—that 
very recently a Mr. James Deane, of Camborne, in 
Cornwall, came to stay at the Chancellor Hotel, in 
Southernstowe, that he left the hotel, mysteriously, 
about midnight, on the night of his arrival, and that 
his dead body was discovered, two days later, in a 
disused sand-pit on the northern edge of the town. 
It has been believed up to now that Mr. Deane at 
the time of his death had a quantity of valuable 
jewellery and a large sum of money on him and 
that he was murdered for it—that in fact, when he 
went out of the hotel that night, he carried his 
money and his valuables with him. Now, in plain 
truth, he didn’t—Mr. Deane’s ready money, a very 
large sum, and his valuables are all in possession of 
the two defendants before you, and I am prepared, 
by their instructions, to hand them over to the police 
as soon as this court rises!” 

Amid the murmur of irrepressible excitement 
caused by this announcement, Shelmore went on 
quietly. 

“I am instructed to tell your Worships precisely 
what happened,” he said. “About eleven o’clock on 
the night in question, Mary Sanders, as chamber¬ 
maid, took to Mr. Deane’s room a glass of hot milk. 


174 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Mr. Deane was in his pyjamas and dressing-gown 
reading. Mary Sanders saw on his dressing-table 
his gold watch and chain, his diamond pin and rings, 
some money and a purse. Mr. Deane told her 
to bring him in some tea at seven o’clock next morn¬ 
ing. She did so. On then entering his room she 
found he was not there. But on the dressing-table 
still lay the valuables and money she had seen the 
night before. She had thought Mr. Deane had gone 
out of the room for awhile and went away. But 
later, when she found he had not returned she 
thought he had gone for a walk before breakfast. 
Still later, when there was no sign of him, she 
removed the money, valuables and purse from the 
dressing-table and placed them under Mr. Deane’s 
clothing in a drawer in the room, intending to tell 
him of what she had done when he returned. But 
Mr. Deane never did return. Eventually, news of 
the discovery of Mr. Deane’s body reached the 
Chancellor. Mary Sanders heard of it, and of 
course she remembered what she had done with the 
valuables and money. And—she told Kight about 
that! Immediately afterwards Kight and Mary 
Sanders were questioned by Superintendent Mella- 
pont, and they made out from what they then learned 
and from the talk which went on—your Lordships 
know how these things are talked about—that the 


STILL OPEN 


175 


police were firmly under the impression that Deane 
had his money in his pocket, his rings on his fingers, 
and his valuable diamond pin in his cravat when 
he went out of the hotel, and was murdered for the 
sake of them. And thereupon—I am not endeavour¬ 
ing to exculpate them, nor do they now wish to 
exculpate themselves—thereupon they yielded to 
temptation and decided to appropriate these proper¬ 
ties. Mary Sanders took the various articles from 
the drawer in which she had hidden them, and 
handed them to Kight. Right took them away 
and placed them in a secret receptacle of his own. 
As time went on, they felt themselves safe, and the 
day before yesterday, having a holiday together in 
Portsmouth, they decided to take the watch there 
and sell it—with the result that they are now . . . 
where they are. This is the plain truth about the 
whole matter as far as my clients are concerned. 
Superintendent Mellapont has thrown out some hint 
about a graver charge—he can only be referring to 
one thing, the murder of Mr. Deane. My clients, 
your Worships, know nothing whatever about that. 
Both can easily prove that on the night on which 
that murder undoubtedly took place they were at 
the Chancellor Hotel and never went outside its 
doors. As I have already said, I am instructed to 
plead guilty on their behalf to the present charge. 


176 


THE SAFETY PIN 


I am also in a position to hand over to the police, at 
once, all the missing property other than the watch, 
which they already hold. The prisoners will have 
to be committed to Quarter Sessions for sentence, 
and I venture to suggest in view of their confession, 
their willingness to make amends, and their un¬ 
doubtedly previous good character, that it is not 
unwarrantable to ask your Worships to grant bail/' 

“I oppose all questions of bail,” said Mellapont 
firmly. “I ask your Worships not to consider it at 
all at present, but instead to remand the accused into 
custody for a week from to-day.” 

Mellapont got his way. All the same, within an 
hour, Shelmore walked into the Superintendent’s 
private office at the police station with a brown 
paper parcel in his hand. Removing the paper he 
laid an old cigar-box before Mellapont. 

“According to Kight,” he said, “all the stolen 
property is in there. He gave me full information 
as to where it was, and instructions to hand it over 
to you. See what’s inside.” 

Mellapont, saying nothing, opened the box and 
removed some layers of paper which lay on the top. 
This revealed the diamond pin, the two rings, some 
loose money, and an old-fashioned purse. Within 
the purse was a quantity of bank-notes which Mel¬ 
lapont immediately began to count. 


STILL OPEN 177 

“Two hundred and thirty-five pounds,” he re¬ 
marked. “A good deal to carry!” 

“He was going on the Continent,” ^aid Shelmore. 
“Well—that’s all I can do!” He paused, looking 
enquiringly at Mellapont. “Do you seriously think 
there’s any possibility of carrying any further charge 
against these two?” he asked. 

“There are certain things to be considered,” 
answered Mellapont. “To start with, just remem¬ 
ber that Sanders told us lies when she was asked 
about this affair at first. She said that when she 
took the tea in that morning the money and jewellery 
which she’d seen on the dressing-table the night 
before were not there. Now she says they were! 
That’s not in her favour! Besides—there’s a more 
serious thing than that.” 

“What?” asked Shelmore. 

Mellapont gave him a keen, almost cynical look. 

“How do I know that these two hadn’t an accom¬ 
plice?” he asked. “What about that idea. Eh?” 

“You were—” began Shelmore and stopped. 
“Don’t quite understand,” he went on. “You mean 
—in what respect ?” 

“How do I know that they hadn’t an accomplice 
who followed Deane from the hotel, knowing he’d 
left all this lying about, and murdered him?” 
answered Mellapont. “It’s possible.” 


178 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“That would ayppear that the whole affair was a 
carefully arranged job,” said Shelmore. 

“Well, and why not?” asked Mellapont. “It’s 
all very well, Mr. Shelmore, but I want to get at a 
complete solution of this thing! I don’t say that 
Right and Sanders murdered Deane, or that they 
conspired with some other person to murder him, 
but I do say that it’s possible they did the last and 
that it would be a very foolish thing to let ’em out 
on bail until we know more. This murder is a very 
mysterious one, and though I’ve worked hard at it, 
I’ve got no clue, no indicative, nothing—unless,” he 
added, with a laugh which seemed to indicate doubt 
and scepticism, “unless something that I’ve got is a 
clue—which it probably isn’t !” 

“What’s that ?” asked Shelmore. 

“Well, I’ll show you,” answered Mellapont. “In 
confidence—between ourselves. I’ve never men¬ 
tioned it to a soul, never shown it to anybody. It 
was this way—the day after the discovery of Deane’s 
body, I went up to that sand-pit alone, and had a 
very careful look round, to see if I could discover 
anything. Now that sand-pit, as you may be aware, 
having been a very long time disused has become 
thickly overgrown with stiff wiry grass, on which 
it’s scarcely possible to make any impression—that’s 
why we failed to find any really important or use- 


STILL OPEN 


179 


ful trace of footprints. But amongst the bushes in 
the grass, close by where Deane’s body was lying 
when discovered, I found—this!” 

He had drawn a pocket-book from his tunic as 
he spoke, and now from an inner compartment, he 
produced a small object which he balanced on his 
finger. 

“See that?” he said. “Know what it is? It’s 
the enamelled face of a cuff-link! It’s been set on 
a base of gold and silver, or some other metal, 
worked loose, and then dropped in that sand-pit. 
Now, it didn’t come off the victim’s cuff-links as 
his were plain gold. But—did it come off the mur¬ 
derer’s ?” 

“If you could discover that—” said Shelmore. 

“Aye, if!” answered Mellapont. “If—if? Well, 
who knows? But at present, Mr. Shelmore, as 
regards the actual murder, we’re still where we were. 
This morning’s proceedings don’t help a bit! The 
question’s still there—who killed James Deane . . . 
and why?” 

John Hackdale had come to the same conclusion 
before he left the court, and his anxiety about Bart¬ 
lett and his potentialities for harm deepened. He 
forced his way to Bartlett through the crowd as the 
court cleared, and laid a hand on his arm. Bartlett 
scowled and shook himself free. 


i8o 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“You leave me alone, Hackdale,” he whispered 
officiously. “Not at your beck and call, my lad!” 

“You had money of me!” retorted Hackdale in a 
similar tone. “Money-” 

“That Fd earned!” said Bartlett, maliciously. 
“Go and tell everybody why you gave it to me—if 
you dare!” 

Then he moved forward in the crush of people, 
and Hackdale turned away baffled. He was unaware 
that Simmons was just behind him and had wit¬ 
nessed this encounter; unaware, too, that Simmons’s 
sharp ears had overheard Bartlett’s last sneering 
defiance. 


CHAPTER XIV 

WHICH GOLD MINE? 

jQARTLETT had been quietly watching John 
Hackdale during the court proceedings and 
had observed the anxiety with which he followed 
every development. It seemed to him that Hack- 
dale was relieved when it was proved that Kight 
and his fellow-dependant had become possessed of 
the watch; anxious and perturbed again when the 
explanation of this trip was given by Shelmore; 
still more perturbed, even to badly concealed agita¬ 
tion when Shelmore said, in reference to Mella- 
pont’s scarcely veiled hint of a future charge, that 
it could easily be proved that the two prisoners 
never quitted the Chancellor Hotel on the night of 
the murder. Bartlett knew, or feared that he knew, 
what was passing in Hackdale’s mind. If it was 
certain that Kight and Sanders, though guilty of 
the theft of Deane’s money and valuables, were 
absolutely innocent of his murder, the original 
181 


182 


THE SAFETY PIN 


question was still to be asked—who killed James 
Deane? Bartlett believed that John Hackdale either 
knew the answer to that question or had a strong 
suspicion as to what the answer might be; he was 
shielding somebody—himself or some other per¬ 
son ; hence his anxiety. And Bartlett had also seen 
that anxiety deepen as he flung his defiant retort 
at him outside the court—there was no doubt about 
it, he said to himself as he walked off. John Hack- 
dale was frightened, frightened of him, frightened 
of what he could tell, very well then said Bartlett, 
with another sneer, the thing to do was obvious, 
he must consider how best to turn this fear to his 
own account, his own benefit. 

He had meant to return to Portsmouth after the 
proceedings in the Magistrate’s Court, but now, 
after some further thought, he turned away from 
the railway station, and making for the eastern out¬ 
skirts of the city, sought a quiet tavern where he 
was known and engaged a room for a day or two, 
telling its landlady that he had a little business in 
the neighbourhood and wanted peaceful and com¬ 
fortable quarters. The landlady, struck by his al¬ 
tered and smart appearance, his evident handsome 
supply of ready money, and his generally changed 
manner, made him welcome and at his suggestion 
cooked him a hot dinner which she served to him 


WHICH GOLD MINE? 


183 


in a private parlour. Bartlett, who had breakfasted 
very early at Portsmouth, did full justice to it, and 
took his time over it and his allowance of rum 
when it was finished. And while he ate and drank 
and afterwards sipped his rum-punch and smoked 
his pipe he emulated the habits of great generals 
and considered and elaborated his future plan of 
campaign. Underneath all his thinking, speculat¬ 
ing, contriving, designing, lay a basic question 
which he formulated as of vast importance. This 
question:—“Which woman was he most likely to 
extract most money out of?—Miss Pretty or Mrs. 
Champernowne ? In other words, which policy 
would pay him best—to go for Miss Pretty’s re¬ 
maining rewards, or to blackmail Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne ? 

He thought out these things carefully, slowly. 
First, as regards Miss Pretty. He had already got 
the reward of a thousand pounds which she had 
offered for information about the jewellery; Miss 
Pretty had given him a cheque for the full amount 
as soon as she, he, and the jeweller had seen Mella- 
pont, the day before, and Bartlett had returned to 
Portsmouth with it and opened a banking account, 
and had left the bank feeling several inches taller 
than when he entered. Yes—that had come easily 
enough—and all by a stroke of sheer luck. Miss 


184 THE SAFETY PIN 

Pretty had parted with her money readily—she was 
a young woman of her word. But . . . would it 
be as easy to get more money out of her? She 
had offered a similar reward to anybody who could 
prove that he or she had seen Deane on the night 
of the murder—well, to be sure, he, Bartlett, had 
seen him and spoken to him—another rare piece of 
luck for him, that; the original piece of luck!—but 
. . . how could he prove it? That was impossible 
—impossible, at any rate, to prove it to Miss Pretty. 
In spite of the readiness with which she had given 
him her cheque for the first reward. Bartlett had 
seen several little things in Miss Pretty which con¬ 
vinced him that she was a smart and keen young 
woman of business, who would want much more 
than his mere, uncorroborated assertion that he had 
seen and had speech with Deane. True, he could 
bring proof in this way: he could say “I met Deane 
—he asked me the whereabouts of Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s residence. Ashenhurst House, I told him; 
he went that way; later on I told John Hackdale 
of this occurrence; Hackdale gave me a consider¬ 
able sum of money, which I believe he got from 
Mrs. Champernowne, to go to America so that no 
one could question me, and promised a similar sum 
on my reaching America—that’s corroborative evi¬ 
dence of the truth of my assertion.” But that 


WHICH GOLD MINE? 185 

would cut into another matter—and he dismissed 
it. He dismissed also the idea of going in for the 
third and most considerable reward, the one of 
£3000, for definite information that would lead to 
the arrest and conviction of Deane’s actual mur¬ 
derer. Bartlett, whatever suspicion he might have 
about some doubtful business between Deane and 
Mrs. Champernowne and Mrs. Champernowne and 
Hackdale, hadn’t the ghost of a motive as to who 
killed James Deane and saw no possibility of ever 
getting at one; it was a mystery which, in his 
opinion, would forever remain a mystery. No—- 
he saw no chance of the third reward, nor of the 
second; Miss Pretty, as a gold mine, a treasure- 
house, a mil^ cow, was, accordingly, exhausted, 
worked out, dried-up. Well . . . anyway he had 
got a thousand of the best out of her. 

And . . . there was Mrs. Champernowne. Mrs. 
Champernowne was a rich, a very rich woman. 
She rolled in money—so those people said who were 
in a position to know. And she was a person of 
very great importance—a big figure, socially, pub¬ 
licly, politically; big in divers ways. She was 
Mayor of Southernstowe. She was a Governor of 
the Hospital of St. Peter and St. Paul. She was 
Chairman of the Trustees of Anberon’s Charity. 
She was President of the Southernstowe Women’s 


186 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Conservative Association. Heaven knew what she 
wasn’t in that sort of thing, mused Bartlett. And 
she was going to marry Sir Reville Childerstone, 
of Childerstone Park, and blossom out as my lady. 
That was a big, a very big thing:—Sir Reville was 
none of your modern mushroom men, not he—he 
was the fifteenth baronet, and long before his an¬ 
cestors attained the dignity of the Bloody Hand 
they had been settled at Childerstone for centuries. 
Clearly, the Champernowne—Lady Childerstone 
that was to be—was surely the very person to pay 
a good price for keeping her name out of—should 
he say, scandal? 

Bartlett kept very quiet all that afternoon, and 
the landlady of the quiet inn, who had known him 
in the old days as a man greatly given to liquor, 
was surprised to find that he had become quite 
abstemious and had taken to drinking a dish of 
tea at five o’clock. He went out for a little stroll 
in the neighbouring lanes thereafter, and on return¬ 
ing asked for pen, ink, and paper. A good clerk in 
his time, Bartlett prided himself on writing a beau¬ 
tiful hand, and he took particular pains in inditing 
the following epistle: 

The Waggoner’s Rest. Wednesday evening. 

Sir—It would probably be to the best interest 

of everybody concerned if you would call upon me 


WHICH GOLD MINE? 


187 


in my private apartment at the above-mentioned 
house at any hour of to-night which is most con¬ 
venient to yourself. 

Your obedient servant, 

James Bartlftt. 

Addressing this precise and formal communica¬ 
tion to Mr. John Hackdale, 23, St. Sigfrid’s Square, 
Bartlett handed it over, with half-a-crown, to the 
landlady’s boy, for immediate delivery, and then 
sat down to await the result. But he was sure 
that Hackdale would come, and at seven o’clock 
he came. 

It would have been well for Hackdale if he had 
been able to confront Bartlett with even an assump¬ 
tion of indifference if not of determination. But 
Bartlett was quick to note the old air of anxiety. 
Hackdale looked at him, as soon as he entered the 
room, as a nervous man might look at a strange 
animal which may or may not suddenly spring on 
him. He replied to Bartlett’s polite greeting with 
a mere nod, and taking the chair which he indicated, 
spoke—almost sullenly. 

“What do you want?” he demanded. “I’ve come, 
do you see.” 

“Business, Mr. Hackdale, business,” answered 
Bartlett. “The old business! As I said in my 
letter—for the best interest of everybody concerned. 


i88 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Fve something to tell, and I think you know of the 
most likely buyer. But—if you don’t, you know, 
I’m aware of another!” 

“You don’t stand by your bargain,” said Hack- 
dale. 

“Depends on the bargaining,” retorted Bartlett. 
“If you find you’ve been cheated-” 

“Cheated?” exclaimed Hackdale. “Do you 
mean-” 

“What do you call it but cheating to give a man 
twopence when he deserves two shillings?” asked 
Bartlett. “Metaphor, of course, but you know what 
I mean, as well as I do.” 

Hackdale looked round at the door. 

“Safe as safe can be,” said Bartlett, reassuringly. 
“Double door there, as you see, and nothing but a 
long and empty garage beyond. Say what you 
please.” 

But Hackdale lowered the tone of his voice to 
a whisper. 

“I paid you a hundred and fifty pounds on strict 
conditions that you set off that very night to 
Southampton, to sail next day for America,” he 
said, “and you were to have the same amount cabled 
to you as soon as you announced your arrival in 
New York. But you never went to New York— 
you took my money-” 





WHICH GOLD MINE? 


189 

“Not yours!” interrupted Bartlett. 

“Anyway, you didn’t keep your promise!” con¬ 
cluded Hackdale. 

“Promises are like pie-crust, as the old 
saying is,” remarked Bartlett. “Made to be 
broken.” 

“Not by honest and honourable men,” said Hack- 
dale. 

“I think we’d better leave honour and honesty 
clean out,” announced Bartlett drily. “They seem 
—a bit out of place. But—business! Of course 
I didn’t go to New York! Meant to! But you 
see I hadn’t seen Miss Pretty’s offer of a reward 
then. I did see it, however, very soon after I’d 
seen you—while I was packing my duds together. 
And—I changed my mind. You see, all I was to 
get out of—your client:—was £300. But Miss 
Pretty offered much more.” 

Hackdale was looking Bartlett carefully over, 
noting his good clothes, clean linen, his new boots, 
his general respectability. 

“You seem to have handled some of Miss Pretty’s 
money,” he said bitterly. “You’re in pretty good 
feather!” 

“Wrong, my son!” retorted Bartlett. “This pur¬ 
ple and fine linen—metaphor again—came out of 
your money—or, I should say, your client’s money. 


190 


THE SAFETY PIN 


And—I want to know,” he went on suddenly as¬ 
suming a determined air. “I want to know if your 
client is going to be reasonable! if she’s going to 
pay me a proper sum for my silence? A hundred 
and fifty is a flea-bite! Three hundred is—nothing! 
Miss Pretty will stump up three thousand—what’s 
she prepared to run to? When I use the feminine 
indicative, Hackdale, I mean a certain particular 
lady. You know who!” 

“And supposing I tell you that she won’t stump 
up one penny more?” answered Hackdale. “What 
then?” 

“Then of course I put on my hat, walk along to 
Superintendent Mellapont, and tell all I know— 
incidentally, I call on Miss Pretty, at the Chancellor 
Hotel, and in telling her of what I’ve done, lay 
claim to the £3000,” said Bartlett. “That’s the 
procedure, my lad! But,” he went on, eyeing Hack- 
dale closely and slyly, “it won’t come to that,—it 
won’t come to that!” 

“Why not?” demanded Hackdale. 

“Because,” replied Bartlett, bending forward 
from his elbow chair and laying his hand on Hack- 
dale’s knee, “because a lady of great social and 
public importance, a lady, moreover, who is about 
to become the wife of a baronet, cannot afford to 
have ugly rumours circulating about her nor have 


WHICH GOLD MINE? 


191 

the police enquiring into nasty episodes! And I— 
I am the man who can start the rumours and in¬ 
vestigate the enquiries! Hackdale—I’m like the 
big dam across some enormous reservoir—again I 
speak in metaphor. Yes, a dam! a good image. 
Break me down!—and out rushes the destroying 
flood! Comprehend?” 

'‘What is your game, Bartlett?” asked Hackdale. 
“Do you seriously think that a word from you 
would—would- ’ 

“You’re afraid to say it!” sneered Bartlett. “My 
son!—you don’t know what I know! You don’t 
know how clever I am, either. They didn’t mention 
my name to-day at the Magistrate’s Court, but it 
was I, yours truly, who tracked the gold watch 
and gave Master Charles Kight and Miss Mary 
Sanders in charge! And I know a lot more than 
you—and your client—are aware of, and I say to 
you—if you’re sensible, buy Jim Bartlett’s silence 
once and for ever and be safe!” 

“How do I—we—know that what you know 
isn’t known to others?” asked Hackdale. 

“Then you’re off it, my son!” said Bartlett con¬ 
fidently. “I do know this, for an absolute fact. 
Nobody in this world knows what I know about 
this matter—nobody! I’m the sole repository. 
Make a golden key, Hackdale, insert and turn it in 



192 


THE SAFETY PIN 


the safe of my breast, and the secret’s locked up 
for ever and ever!” 

“How much do you want?” questioned Hackdale. 
“A figure.” 

But Bartlett waved his hand. 

“Too precious, my lad,” he said carelessly. 
“That’s to be discussed—with your principal.” 

“My principal!” exclaimed Hackdale. “Mrs.-” 

“H’sh!—-no use to mention names,” said Bart¬ 
lett. “Your principal—this lady. I suggest that 
you take me to see her. Why not? I’m respectable 
—my manners are good—my speech excellent— 
my address all that it should be. I moved in very 
good circles once, Hackdale—I was very nearly 
being a gentleman!” 

Hackdale was stroking his chin; thinking; won¬ 
dering. Bartlett was a puzzle; he was beyond him. 
But he suddenly remembered Mrs. Champernowne 
could be hard as marble and tough as steel on 
occasion—why not turn Bartlett over to her? Be¬ 
fore he could speak, Bartlett leaned nearer, con¬ 
fronting him with a cynical smile. 

“And why be backward in presenting me in per¬ 
son to—this good lady?” he asked. “Why should 
you shield her, my lad? Come!—Why don’t you 
look after your own interests a bit? You’re in 
possession of a secret—my secret, if you like, or, 



WHICH GOLD MINE? 


193 


rather some of it. You know—what I’ve told you! 
Why don’t you turn that to advantage? But . . . 
perhaps you’ve done that already—eh?” 

Hackdale flickered a little under Bartlett’s mock¬ 
ing eyes. He knew, well enough, that his real 
anxiety was not for Mrs. Champernowne at all, 
but for himself. He had not the remotest idea of 
what her secret was, or why she was mortally afraid 
of having her name mentioned in connection with 
the Deane affair—all he knew in that relation was 
that there was a secret and that she was afraid. 
That only concerned him as it affected, or might 
affect himself. But it was in his mind that if Mrs. 
Champernowne were hit, he might be hit, too. All 
the recent arrangements might come to an end; his 
new post might never materialise; everything might 
be wrong. He had seen and heard enough to know 
that Mrs. Champernowne had the strongest and 
gravest reasons for not wishing it to be known 
that she knew anything of Deane; it was in his 
own interest to further Mrs. Champernowne’s de¬ 
cision. Either as Mrs. Champernowne or as Lady 
Childerstone, she could be of immense use to him 
and his career, and she must be protected, at any 
cost. Bartlett was evidently an integral part of 
the cost—and perhaps she could tackle him better 
then he, Hackdale, could. 


194 


THE SAFETY PIN 


He rose from his chair, abruptly. 

“Very well, then,” he said. “Come along— 
now.” 

“At your service, sir,” answered Bartlett. “As 
soon as I’ve put on my coat and hat. “Will you 
have a drink before we go, Mr. Hackdale?” 

“No thank you,” replied Hackdale. “Don’t let 
me stop you, though.” 

“Never drink when I’m doing business, sir 1 ” an¬ 
swered Bartlett. “Not now, at any rate. Stopped 
all that. When a man begins making money-” 

He laughed at his own wit and led the way out. 
But outside the tavern John Hackdale took the 
lead, going in front. In silence he led Bartlett 
across the north-east edge of the city and straight 
to Ashenhurst House. When he knocked at the 
door, Jane Pratt opened it. 



CHAPTER XV 


THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW 

'T'HE parlour-maid received Hackdale with her 
*■* usual demure and quiet smile. But she 
looked questioningly at Bartlett, and his guide 
hastened to explain matters. 

“Mrs. Champernowne in, Jennie?” he asked. 
“Just so!—Well this gentleman and I have some 
business with her. But—mine first. Can you put 
him in the little morning-room while I see Mrs. 
Champernowne ?” 

As if sure of his answer, Hackdale strode into 
the hall, motioning his companion to follow. Jane 
Pratt opened the door of a small room close by, 
switched on the electric light, and stood aside for 
Bartlett to enter. But Hackdale remained at the 
door, waiting while the girl went down the hall 
and entered another room. He knew that Mrs. 
Champernowne would see him at once—and within 
the moment he had obeyed Jane Pratt’s beckoning 
hand and gone forward. 


i95 


196 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Mrs. Champernowne, alone, was in her drawing¬ 
room, a big, brilliantly lighted room, overlooking 
the lawn. She sat at an escritoire, placed in the 
recess of the wide window, evidently writing let¬ 
ters. Hackdale observed as he walked across the 
room to her side that neither blinds nor curtains 
were drawn across the window and that shafts of 
light from the electric bulbs fell across the green 
sward and on the ornamental shrubberies outside. 
But all this was in a glance, his eyes fastened on Mrs. 
Champernowne, and in hers he saw new anxiety. 

“Well,” she said, pointing to a chair close to her 
own. “Well?” 

Hackdale sat down and leaned towards her. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Champernowne,” he answered in 
a low voice, “but I had to come to you, and at 
once—thought it best. In fact, the only thing to 
do. It’s the old trouble, Mrs. Champernowne! 
That man I told you about. He’s—back!” 

Mrs. Champernowne’s fingers came together in 
a startled movement, and her face paled. She 
looked at Hackdale with plain indications of fear. 

“You said you’d—got rid of him!” she mur¬ 
mured. “For—good!” 

“I thought I had,” said Hackdale ruefully. “I 
did my best. I paid him that money—a hundred 
and fifty!—and promised him the same amount, 


THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW 197 


by cable, as soon as I heard that he’d landed at 
New York. But—he never went! I don’t know 
what he did—all I know is that he left the town 
that night, and went somewhere. It must have been 
somewhere close by, because he’s been keeping an 
eye on things. It was he who found out about the 
watch, and gave information that led to the arrest 
of those two people at the Chancellor. Of course 
you’ve heard of all that took place at the City Court 
this morning?—though you weren’t in the place.” 

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Champernowne. She re¬ 
mained silent for a moment or two, watching Hack- 
dale and turning over the rings on her plump 
fingers. “So it was he who ferreted that out?” she 
said at last. “The same man?” 

“Same man!” asserted Hackdale. “A dangerous, 
sly, crafty man! He’s got the thousand pounds 
reward that Miss Pretty offered to whoever found 
out anything about the missing valuables. The way 
out of it is, I don’t know how much he knows about 
—about what he hissed at, at first. You know 
what I mean. But—I’m afraid he knows more 
than he’s told—up to now. The question is—what 
can he tell?” 

“Haven’t you any idea—any theory?” asked Mrs. 
Champernowne, anxiously. 

“Well,” replied Hackdale, slowly and sinking his 


THE SAFETY PIN 


198 

voice still lower. “I have. I told you at first that this 
man told me that Deane stopped him that night near 
North Bar, and, mentioning your name, asked to be 
directed to your house. He told Deane where the house 
was and saw him go in that direction; that’s all 
he admitted to me, and of course, I bribed him to 
keep his tongue still about even that much. But, it’s 
my opinion, Mrs. Champernowne, that he followed 
Deane, and saw Deane with you, in your grounds!” 

He watched Mrs. Champernowne carefully as he 
spoke the concluding sentence, and he saw that her 
anxiety increased. And he began to wonder. Was 
it possible. . . . 

“The thing is,” said Mrs. Champernowne, sud¬ 
denly, “the thing is—has he ever told anybody but 
you what he told you? Anybody?” 

“On that point, Fm certain!” answered Hack- 
dale. “I feel absolutely certain that he hasn’t told 
a soul! He’s too late! He knows that he can get 
more out of you than he could get out of anybody 
else—that is, if it’s really necessary that the fact 
that Deane came to see you that night and did see 
you must be kept . . . secret. Is it, Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne?” 

Mrs. Champernowne gave him a strange but 
^steady look. 

“It is!” she answered. “Dead secret!” 


THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW 199 

“Then this man will have to be squared,” said 
Hackdale. “That’s flat. There’s no use in arguing 
about it—he’s got the whip-hand.” 

“But—where will it end?” asked Mrs. Cham- 
pernowne. “Give him more now—and he’ll turn 
up again! It will be a perpetual blackmail. If he 
could be silenced, once for all. . . .” 

“There may be a way,” remarked Hackdale. 
“I’ve been thinking things over as I came here. 
But first let me ask you this—you know me, Mrs. 
Champernowne, and that I’ve done my best for 
you in this matter. Now, is it utterly impossible 
for you to—well, to go to the police, to Superin¬ 
tendent Mellapont, tell all you know about it, and 
have the thing completely cleared up? Cleared up 
for good!—So that you could snap your fingers at 
this fellow? Think, Mrs. Champernowne!” 

Mrs. Champernowne became silent. Whether 
she was thinking or not, Hackdale could not tell. 
She began drawing her fingers backwards and for¬ 
wards over the blotting-pad in front of her; she 
kept glancing from them to Hackdale, from Hack- 
dale to her fingers. Her eyes grew sombre, strange. 
And suddenly she spoke. 

“Absolutely impossible!” she said in a hard, 
strained voice. “The man must be bought! Once 
for all. But I wish I were sure, was certain-” 


200 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Sure, certain of what, Mrs. Champernowne ?” 
asked Hackdale as she paused. 

“Certain—beyond doubt—that nobody else knows 
what this man knows,” she answered. “If I could 
be sure of that. . . .” 

“I think you may be perfectly sure of it, and 
for a very simple reason,” remarked Hackdale. “I 
am!” 

“What reason?—and why are you here?” 

“Why this reason,” replied Hackdale, with a con¬ 
fident laugh. “If there was anybody—anybody!— 
man or woman—in Southernstowe who knew what 
he knows, he or she would have been after Miss 
Pretty’s reward long since! No, Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne, he’s the sole repository—and the sole 
danger!” 

“Then he must be bought,” she repeated firmly. 
“But—how to ensure his future silence? You 
hinted at some notion of yours, what is it?” 

“I shouldn’t recommend giving him a big lump 
sum of money,” said Hackdale. “He might go 
through it and then demand more. My notion is 
—well, something like a pension, an annuity—so 
much a year, you know.” 

“For life?” asked Mrs. Champernowne. 

Hackdale gave her a significant look. 

“While he lives he’ll be able to tell, at any time, 


THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW 201 


what he might tell now!” he said. “Yes!—it would 
have to be for life.” 

“Who is the man?” demanded Mrs. Champer- 
nowne abruptly. 

“James Bartlett!” answered Hackdale. “James 
Bartlett.” 

Mrs. Champernowne let out a little cry of dis¬ 
may. 

“Bartlett!” she exclaimed. “He drinks! A man 
who drinks—talks !” 

But Hackdale shook his head. 

“Used to,” he said. “But he seems to have re¬ 
formed and become quite steady—a bit too steady 
I think, for my liking. I think money’s reformed 
him. In my opinion, he’s transferred his affections 
from his bottle to his bank balance! He seems 
unusually keen on adding to that, anyway. No— 
if he’s squared, in the way I suggest, Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne, he’ll not talk. I don’t know any man 
in Southernstowe who’s more keenly alive to his 
own interests than he is—now.” 

“Well,” said Mrs. Champernowne. “This plan 
of yours, then? Will you see him about it?” 

Hackdale nodded at the door by which he had 
entered. 

“He’s here, Mrs. Champernowne,” he answered. 
“I thought it, knew it, to be best to bring him. 


202 


THE SAFETY PIN 


You see him!—put on your hardest, most business¬ 
like air—let him see that he’s dealing with you at 
your keenest—be firm with him. Far better for 
him to deal with you, as principal, than with me 
as go-between! Shall I bring him in, Mrs. Cham- 
pernowne ?” 

He rose in accordance with her nod, and leaving 
the room, went along the hall to fetch Bartlett. 
As far as he observed, the hall was empty. But 
it was not. In the shadows of its further extremity 
Jane Pratt, watchful and suspicious of the doings 
of Simmons’s brother was lurking and keeping her 
eyes and ears open. She saw Hackdale fetch Bart¬ 
lett from the little morning-room; saw the exchange 
of whispers between them as they walked up the 
hall; saw them disappear into the drawing-room. 
The door closed. And Jane Pratt, suddenly re¬ 
membering that her mistress had a strange, curious 
objection to drawn blinds and curtains, stole out of 
her shadows, slipped from the house by a side door, 
and went round to a shrubbery, from amongst the 
laurels and lilacs of which she, herself safely hid¬ 
den, could see right into the drawing-room window. 

Bartlett followed Hackdale into Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s presence with a good deal of curiosity. He 
remembered that he had once met her under very 
different circumstances. The meeting-place was the 


THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW 203 

city police-court, and while Mrs. Champernowne 
sat on the bench, he stood in the dock. Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne, as presiding magistrate, had not only 
fined him but lectured him—severely: she had made 
him feel very small indeed. But now things were 
changed: Bartlett was disposed to consider himself 
as judge and Mrs. Champernowne as culprit. He 
held his head high, and assumed his best and grand¬ 
est manner, remembering, as he had already said 
to Hackdale, that once upon a time he had been 
very nearly a gentleman. 

But Bartlett found himself considerably taken 
aback. Mrs. Champernowne, seated at her escri¬ 
toire, was not one whit less formidable than Mrs. 
Champernowne, Mayor of Southernstowe in the 
big magisterial chair. Handsome and taking as her 
well-preserved face was she could make it uncom¬ 
monly stern and even forbidding, and she looked 
at Bartlett as Hackdale brought him forward much 
as she might have looked at a newly captured burg¬ 
lar haled to the seat of justice. And while she 
motioned Hackdale to seat himself she left Bartlett 
standing, and, as he stood, looked him over from 
head to foot in a fashion which made him feel at 
a decided disadvantage. It was not at his raiment 
she was looking—Bartlett was too certain of his 
respectable and even fashionable appearance to be 


204 


THE SAFETY PIN 


uneasy on that point—it was as if she was examin¬ 
ing his very soul: looking inside him as it were. 
He suddenly noticed that Mrs. Champernowne was 
neither as soft as butter nor as pliable as thin metal, 
and his self-assurance began to melt. 

“Well, Bartlett!” began Mrs. Champernowne in 
a sharp, business-like tone, “it seems that we are to 
have some dealings together. But I don’t care to 
have any transactions with men who are not steady. 
It’s not so very long since you were brought before 
me for drunkenness: I fined you for it. How do 
I know that you’ve altered your habit?” 

Bartlett spread out his hands with a look of 
injured innocence. 

“Do I look like a man of—of such habits as x 
you refer to, Mrs. Champernowne?” he asked 
aggrievedly. “That—that was some time ago, 
ma’am. I may say I’ve adopted other habits—and 
a different course of life. I’m going in for re¬ 
spectability, Mrs. Champernowne—eminent respect¬ 
ability! Of course, ma’am, it’s merely to return 
to what I used to be—there are plenty of peo¬ 
ple in this neighbourhood, Mrs. Champernowne, 
who can remember me as a highly respectable per¬ 
son!” 

“Glad to hear you’ve reformed, Bartlett,” said 
Mrs. Champernowne. “But I’m afraid that if you 


THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW 205 


lead a leisured life on easily got money you may 
fall into pleasure-loving ways and get amongst con¬ 
vivial companions, and go back to your old excesses. 
And when wine’s in, truth’s out!—I daresay you 
know what I mean.” 

“Oh, I quite take your meaning, Mrs. Champer- 
nowne,” responded Bartlett, “and I’m not offended 
in the least, ma’am. But I assure you, Mrs. Cham- 
pernowne, that my ambition is otherwise—quite 
otherwise! For one thing, ma’am, I’ve no intention 
whatever of remaining in this neighbourhood, and 
so I shall have no temptation to rejoin the con¬ 
vivial companions of whom you speak. Clean cut, 
Mrs. Champernowne, clean cut!—that’s what I in¬ 
tend to make.” 

Mrs. Champernowne exchanged glances with 
Hackdale. Hackdale took hers for an invitation 
to join in. 

“You were going to make a clean cut a little 
while ago, Bartlett,” he said. “You were going to 
America. You didn’t!” 

Bartlett looked from one to the other of his 
inquisitors with a smile that was half a grimace 
and half an appeal. 

“Why, now, Mr. Hackdale!” he exclaimed almost 
pathetically. “Now sir—and now, Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne—is it to be expected of a man to withdraw 


206 


THE SAFETY PIN 


from the chance of making a bit of money? There 
was that handsome reward offered-” 

“We don’t want to hear anything whatever about 
any reward or anything else, my man !V interrupted 
Mrs. Champernowne sharply. “We don’t want any 
reference, explanation, or anything verbal about any¬ 
thing!—there’s a tacit understanding already be¬ 
tween the three of us. And I too believe that you’ll 
live a sober and steady life, and not let your tongue 
wag.” 

Bartlett’s self-assurance came back to him at 
this, and his tone grew in confidence. “It’s my 
interest—if we come to terms—to be both steady 
and sober, Mrs. Champernowne,” he answered. “I 
should think you could see that yourself.” 

“I think we can provide you with an incentive 
to be sober, steady, respectable in life, and cautious 
and reserved in speech,” remarked Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne, drily. “My terms will be conditional on 
your being all that, Bartlett! I’m not going to 
have terms dictated to me, my man! But—what 
are your ideas about terms? Out with them!” 

Bartlett hesitated a moment. Then, growing 
bold, he spoke. 

“Well, nothing less than Miss Pretty offered— 
for information,” he said. “Miss Pretty mentioned 
three thousand.” 



THE UNCURTAINED WINDOW 207 


“Three thousand fiddlesticks!” interrupted Mrs. 
Champernowne. “You’re not going to get three 
thousand anything out of me, my good fellow!— 
not you! What you’ll get is a regular allowance— 
which you’ll forfeit if I have reason to complain of 
your conduct—in fact, it’ll only be paid if I find that 
you’re keeping sober and steady and holding your 
tongue. Do you understand that ?—an allowance!” 

“For life?” asked Bartlett sharply. 

“For life—yes,” answered Mrs. Champernowne. 

“Paid weekly?” demanded Bartlett. 

“Every Friday,” said Mrs. Champernowne. 
“Mr. Hackdale will pay it.” 

“Well,” said Bartlett. “But—how much?” 

“Four pounds,” replied Mrs. Champernowne. 

“Five, I think, ma’am,” suggested Bartlett. 
“Five! Can’t be done for less—and in addition 
to that I must have at any rate the thousand which 
I could get by going straight to Miss Pretty and 
telling her that-” 

Mrs. Champernowne stopped him with a look 
and a word. They began to bargain. Eventually 
Mrs. Champernowne gave in to Bartlett’s terms— 
a thousand pounds cash down through a cheque 
made out to John Hackdale, and five pounds a week 
for life to be paid by Hackdale every Friday. So 
there was an end. 



208 


THE SAFETY PIN 


The parlour-maid, hearing nothing, saw much. 
She saw Mrs. Champernowne eventually produce her 
cheque-book and hand a cheque to Hackdale. Then 
Hackdale and Bartlett left the drawing-room. Jane 
Pratt heard them let themselves out of the front 
door and go down the drive and away. And she 
herself, marvelling and suspicious was returning 
to the house, when, from the trees in the orchard, 
she heard a low and peculiar whistle. She turned 
from the house at that and made for deeper 
shadows. 


CHAPTER XVI 

DISCOVERIES AND AMBITIONS 

TPHE parlour-maid cautiously slipped away from 
* the vicinity of the house, and keeping in the 
shadows of the trees that separated the garden 
from the orchard, stole through a gap in the hedge 
and turned, as if well accustomed to this procedure, 
to the right, and amongst a cluster of laurel bushes. 
In the darkness an arm stole round her waist, and 
a pair of ready lips sought hers. For a few minutes 
she and the owner of the arm indulged a mutual 
inclination for love-making, in silence. But sud¬ 
denly she disengaged herself from her unseen lover 
and began to whisper. 

“How did you know I was there, Sim ?” she asked. 

“Saw you against that lighted window,” an¬ 
swered Simmons readily. “Knew you in less than 
a glimpse!—isn’t another girl in the town with a 
figure like yours, Jennie! But—what were you 
doing there?” 


209 


210 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Come further away from the house,” said the 
parlour-maid. “Come down the orchard—to the 
bottom. I’ve got some news for you—there’s some¬ 
thing queer happened in there, just now.” 

She drew Simmons away through the trees until 
they came to the edge of the sand-pit in which 
Deane’s dead body had been found. Simmons re¬ 
membered that on their first walk together they had 
come round by that sand-pit, and Jane Pratt had 
been frightened. But she showed no fright on this 
occasion; all recollections of the place and its asso¬ 
ciations had vanished before the curiosity recently 
aroused in her. 

“You want to know what I was doing at that 
window?” she whispered, as she and Simmons 
halted in the shadow of a clump of beeches. “I’ll 
tell you! I was watching!” 

“Who?” demanded Simmons. 

“Well, you’d never guess,” she replied. “I’ll tell 
you all about it. Getting on to perhaps an hour 
ago there was a ring at the front door. Of course, 
I went. There was your brother!” 

“John?” exclaimed Simmons. 

“John, of course—you have no other that I know 
of. John! But—he’d somebody with him. Who 
do you think?” 

“Haven’t a notion! Who, then?” 


DISCOVERIES AND AMBITIONS 211 


“That Bartlett man!—dressed like a gentleman!” 

“What, Jim Bartlett! With John? Why . . . 

Then he paused, thinking. He had seen Bart¬ 
lett, in court, and in the street, and had observed 
the striking change in his appearance—it was clear 
enough that Bartlett had somehow or other come 
into funds. But—with John?—at Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s ?—” 

“Well?” he asked sharply. “What happened?” 

“Your brother said they wanted to see the mis¬ 
tress. He wanted to see her first. Bartlett waited 
while he went in to see her. And I hid myself 
behind the curtain at the end of the front hall and 
watched. Your brother was in the drawing-room 
with the mistress some time; then he went and 
fetched Bartlett. And so I slipped out and went 
round to the window—the mistress has a queer fad 
about blinds and curtains: she won’t have ’em 
drawn so I knew I could see into the room.” 

“What did you see?” asked Simmons. He was 
already sure that some secret lay behind all this— 
this bringing together of Mrs. Champernowne, 
John Hack dale, and James Bartlett meant some¬ 
thing. “If you could only have heard, now!” he 
added regretfully. “Heard!” 

“I couldn’t hear anything, of course,” replied 
Jane Pratt. “But I could see easily enough from 


212 


THE SAFETY PIN 


where I was. Mrs. Champernowne talked for a 
while to Bartlett: your brother talked a bit, too— 
they all talked, but she did most of it. And in 
the end she got out her cheque-book.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Simmons. “She did, eh!” 

“And wrote out a cheque,” continued Jane Pratt. 
“When she’d written it she handed it to your bro¬ 
ther—” 

“Not to Bartlett?” interrupted Simmons, quickly. 

“No—to John Hackdale,” said the parlour-maid. 
“I noticed that particularly. And then they went 
away—straight off! They’d just gone down the 
drive, and I was going back to the house when I 
heard you whistle.” 

Simmons, in the darkness, was rubbing the tip 
of his nose with the fingers of his left hand: a 
trick that he had when he was full of thought. 
His right arm was round the parlour-maid’s slender 
waist, and he gave her a sudden squeeze. 

“Jennie!” he said confidentially. “You’re a 
damned smart girl, and you and me’ll pull some¬ 
thing big off out of this—you see if we don’t! But 
look here!—while I think of it. Where did the 
missus write that cheque?” 

“At her writing-desk—near the drawing-room 
window,” replied Jane Pratt. 

“There’ll be a blotting-pad, then,” said Simmons. 


DISCOVERIES AND AMBITIONS 213 

“You get hold of the top sheet of it—take it off 
and keep it for me. Eh?” 

“That’s easy enough,” answered the parlour¬ 
maid. “I often take off the top piece—I can do 
that to-night. But I say—what do you think it 
all meant?” 

“God knows!” declared Simmons with cheerful 
irreverence. “But I’ll jolly well find out. It’s all 
got to do with this, of course. Any hurry to get 
in?” 

“No!” replied the parlour-maid. “Why?” 

“Can you ask?” said Simmons, amorously. 
“Come on!—hang all that, now. Let’s have a 
nice half-hour to ourselves.” 

The demure parlour-maid had no objection. She 
retired with Simmons to a still quieter corner of 
the wilderness and eventually went back to the 
house well satisfied with the atmosphere of love, 
intrigue, mystery, and spy-business into which her 
swain was cleverly inducting her. She had had 
young men before—but they were ordinary and 
dull in comparison with Simmons. Simmons, in 
Miss Pratt’s opinion, had a Brain; a young man who 
possessed a Brain was much more interesting— 
and amusing—and generally diverting—than the 
young men who—apparently—had none. She found 
a good deal of pleasurable excitement in playing 


214 


THE SAFETY PIN 


up to Simmons, and when they next met she was 
ready with the purloined sheet of blotting paper. 
This was on Miss Pratt’s weekly afternoon out, 
which was also Simmons’s—they met in a quiet 
spot on the outskirts of the town, and there being 
nobody whatever about when she handed over the 
desired object, Simmons immediately produced a 
small hand-mirror from his pocket. 

“Whatever’s that for?” demanded the parlour¬ 
maid. 

“Watch, and you’ll learn something, Jennie,” re¬ 
plied Simmons. “It’s a trick well worth knowing 
—if you want to get at other people’s secrets. Now, 
see, there’s not much on this blotting-paper. And 
there, there, Jennie, is the impression of the cheque 
you talked about! Now, then, see, I hold the mirror 
with one hand; I put the blotting-paper before it 
with the other. Now I look into the mirror. What 
do I see? I see—good Heavens!” 

Simmons let out this exclamation through genu¬ 
ine astonishment. He saw by means of the mirror 
that Mrs. Champernowne had made out a cheque 
in favor of John Hackdale for one thousand 
pounds. Why? Was it for John himself?—Or 
was it for Bartlett?—Or was it for both? And 
was it—hush money? 

The more Simmons thought things over, the 


DISCOVERIES AND AMBITIONS 215 

more he was convinced that he was on the right 
track. The James Deane who had been murdered 
at Southernstowe was the same man as the James 
Arradeane who had made a mysterious disappear¬ 
ance from Normansholt, some twenty years before; 
Mrs. Champernowne of Southernstowe was the 
same woman as Mrs. Arradeane of Normansholt. 
Everything seemed to indicate that Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne or Mr. Alfred had shot Deane to keep his 
tongue quiet for ever. Now then—were John 
Hackdale and Bartlett accessories after the fact?— 
Accessories in this way, that they had become 
possessed of knowledge about the murder and were 
keeping silence about it for the sake of the money 
they were undoubtedly getting from Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne? It appeared to Simmons that the evi¬ 
dence against his brother was strong—strong 
enough already, he considered, to put John in the 
dock. This thing, this murder, happens, he mused; 
next day John Hackdale gets from Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne an appointment which he certainly never 
dreamed of getting twenty-four hours previously 
—and now he handles a cheque for a thousand 
pounds. Clearly, John knew a lot—was probably 
being well paid, squared, bribed, call it what you 
like, to conceal a lot. But what about Bartlett? 
Where did he come in? Why was he present at 


216 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Mrs. Champernowne’s, with John, when the cheque 
was drawn? 

Bartlett was the puzzle—to Simmons. He tried 
to get hold of Bartlett, hoping by means of rum 
and conviviality to pump him. But Bartlett was 
not to be found in Southernstowe; he had, as a 
matter of fact, returned to his quarters at Ports¬ 
mouth. Then Simmons vainly and unobtrusively 
tried to suck the brains of two or three of the 
policemen who did clerical work at the police-sta¬ 
tion. He got nothing out of any of them—either 
they knew nothing whatever about Bartlett or pre¬ 
tended that they didn’t. And then Simmons re¬ 
membered that John had drawn his attention to 
the fact that there, in the open street, heading for 
the City Hall and—presumably—the police, were 
Bartlett, a stranger, and—Miss Pretty. So—Miss 
Pretty must know something about Bartlett. And 
Miss Pretty must be cajoled, or persuaded, or made 
to tell him, Simmons Hackdale, what that some¬ 
thing was. 

He went to call again on Miss Pretty—after long 
and careful consideration of the best way to get 
round her. Miss Pretty, who was somewhat bored 
of an evening, despite the polite attentions of Shel- 
more and his aunt and those of sundry townsfolk 
who were anxious to do something for her, received 


DISCOVERIES AND AMBITIONS 217 

him readily; in spite of his red hair, sharp nose, 
and close-set eyes she thought Simmons interesting 
and she was sure he was no fool—moreover, she 
was not averse to male admiration, and she had 
seen from the first that Simmons, youthful as he 
was, had a keen eye for a pretty girl. When, 
therefore, he entered on this occasion, she had a 
smile for him. 

“Found anything out?” she asked when they 
were alone and facing each other across the hearth¬ 
rug. 

Simmons smoothed the nap of the rakish hat 
which he nursed on his knee and regarded Miss 
Pretty with sidelong glances. 

“In cases like this, Miss Pretty,” he observed, 
“there’s a great deal of mystery! And one’s got 
to be cautious—even with principals. I might 
spoil everything by telling you—even you!—too 
much, too soon. And I’m a bit handicapped— 
through not knowing all I might know. I daresay, 
now, you could tell me something that would be 
very helpful to me?” 

“What?” asked Miss Pretty. 

Simmons suddenly made up his mind to be 
bold. 

“What had that man James Bartlett to do with 
the watch business?” he asked. “He wasn’t called 


2l8 


THE SAFETY PIN 


when Right and Sanders were before the magis¬ 
trates, but I’m sure he’d something to do with the 
affair, because I saw him with you and the jeweller 
to whom the watch was sold.” 

“I don’t know that there’s any secret about it,” 
replied Miss Pretty, unconcernedly. “The police 
didn’t call Bartlett because it wasn’t necessary. But 
he was the man who gave information about the 
night-porter and the chambermaid. He saw them 
go to the jeweller’s shop, found out what they were 
after, and told me.” 

“So—you paid him that reward you offered?” 
asked Simmons. 

“Certainly! He’d earned it,” answered Miss 
Pretty. 

“And I daresay he’d like to earn the other re¬ 
wards—especially the third one!” remarked Sim¬ 
mons. “He’d do with them!” 

“I daresay,” assented Miss Pretty. “But he 
doesn’t know anything else—or I’m jolly well cer¬ 
tain he’d have been after more money from me be¬ 
fore now! No—Bartlett knows nothing more. I 
should know if he did!” 

“You’re very anxious to have this mystery cleared 
up, Miss Pretty?” suggested Simmons. “You feel 
that it’s up to you to be—revenged, eh?” 

“I don’t think it’s either a desire to be revenged, 


DISCOVERIES AND AMBITIONS 219 


or a feeling of vindictiveness,” replied Miss Pretty. 
“What I feel is just this—I think it’s an abominable 
thing that a quiet, harmless, elderly man like my 
guardian should come into this town and be mur¬ 
dered in cold blood!—As I’m now sure he was. 
And I’m going to leave no stone unturned until I 
bring his murderer to justice!” 

“They say that murder will out,” murmured 
Simmons. “But I don’t know! We hear—we 
lawyers—of some strange things, unsolved mys¬ 
teries, Miss Pretty. However, I’m doing my best 
to solve this. I make no pretence, Miss Pretty— 
the money you’ve offered as a reward would be 
highly useful to me. I’m the poor young man 
who’s got to make his way in the world, and, of 
course, I’ve got ambitions. I want to get on and 
to do well, so that I can have a home of my own 
and marry and—” 

“Are you engaged to be married?” enquired Miss 
Pretty, naively. 

“Oh, dear me, no, Miss Pretty!” answered Sim¬ 
mons, affecting great innocence. “I—I haven’t 
even got a young lady!—I’m talking of—of the 
future. Dreams, you know, Miss Pretty. May I 
ask if—if you’re engaged?” 

“You may,” replied Miss Pretty. “I’m not!” 

“I’m surprised!” said Simmons, with a look of 


220 


THE SAFETY PIN 


respectful admiration. “I should have thought you 
would have been.” 

“I only left school a year ago,” remarked Miss 
Pretty. She was taking quiet glances at Simmons, 
and she said to herself that despite his fiery hair 
and ferret eyes he was decidedfy clever-looking. 
“I haven’t had much chance,” she added. “I had 
to give a lot of time to business.” 

“You’re certainly a business woman,” said Sim¬ 
mons. “Clever!” 

“I come of business people,” answered Miss 
Pretty. “I know all about business—my business 
—and money matters, too. Don’t you go thinking 
me a fool about money, either!—If I’ve offered 
all this money for information about my guardian’s 
murder, it’s just because I feel it due to him to 
clear it up, and because—well, I can afford it. Now 
that he’s dead, the business that was his and mine 
becomes mine entirely.” 

“Is that so?” said Simmons respectfully. He 
immediately began to wonder which path it would 
be best to take—that which led towards Miss 
Pretty’s tin-mine and money-bags, or that which 
pointed—indefinitely, yet—to a point from which 
he could blackmail Mrs. Champernowne. “Dear 
me! Well, I’m doing my best, Miss Pretty.” He 
rose to go and Miss Pretty offered him her hand. 


DISCOVERIES AND AMBITIONS 221 


“I—I’m afraid it’s very lonely for you here/' he said 
in his suavest tones. “I—I was going to suggest 
a little, er—diversion for you, if you’d allow me.” 

He was still holding the hand which Miss Pretty 
had given him, and looking down at her with a 
glance in which admiration and almost humble 
reverence were skilfully mingled. Miss Pretty 
thought him very remarkable for a mere boy, but 
she had no objection to his admiration or his rever¬ 
ence. 

“Yes?” she said enquiringly. 

“This is a very beautiful neighbourhood,” said 
Simmons. “You’ve no idea, if you haven’t been 
much outside the city. There are some lovely spots 
—delightful! Artists—they come here in scores, 
summer, autumn, too, some of them. Danesley 
Dingle now, ah, that’s a most beautiful bit! If 
you’d care to see it, Miss Pretty, or any other part 
of the district, I should be—” 

He paused, looking at her, and Miss Pretty, be¬ 
coming wholly feminine, dropped her eyelids—and 
lifted them, a moment later, very demurely. 

“You can take me there, if you like,” she said. 
“Of course, I’d like anything of that sort.” 

“Sunday afternoon, now,” suggested Simmons, 
boldly. “If you would meet me at the end of High 
Street? Then we go across the fields and through 


222 


THE SAPETY PIN 


the woods—a delightful piece of country. At— 
shall we say three o’clock?” 

He went away presently with Miss Pretty’s 
promise to meet him, and certain new and ambitious 
ideas in his scheming brain. Why should he not 
aim at higher flights than he had as yet dared to 
think of? Here was a girl as pretty as her name, 
well endowed with this world’s goods, and ob¬ 
viously impressed by his cleverness and shrewd¬ 
ness. Why not—as he phrased it—put in for her ? 
Again he asked himself—Why not? 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE WOOD AND THE ORCHARD 

1 \ 41 SS PRETTY, left to meditate in her private 
sitting-room at the Chancellor, was con¬ 
scious that this last interview with Simmons had 
been rather pleasant. She thought that for a youth 
of his age Simmons had a way with him which 
induced liking. She had felt quite a thrill when 
he held her hand; the suggestion of a walk with 
him in romantic regions had appealed to something 
in her—unmistakably; already she was looking for¬ 
ward to Sunday. Business-like young woman as 
she believed herself to be, she was also disposed to 
sentiment and by no means disinclined for love- 
making. She stood for some time by the mantel¬ 
piece, mechanically fingering its ornaments and 
staring abstractedly at each in turn; in reality she 
was thinking about Simmons and wondering if he 
might not be what she thought of as a nice boy. 
She continued to think,—and by the time she went 


223 


224 


THE SAFETY PIN 


to bed she had decided that Simmons had a brainy 
forehead, that his hair was in reality an unusual 
and attractive auburn, and that his eyes, even 
though set rather close, were of a pleasing steel- 
blue colour. 

“And certainly he’s clever, and speaks well, and 
dresses well,” mused Miss Pretty. “And he has 
ambition and says he means to win high. Quite a 
nice fellow, really!—much nicer than that stiff and 
proper Shelmore. And if—” 

But there Miss Pretty’s thoughts were hurried 
into the most secret recesses of her mind and be¬ 
came dream-like and vague. She was still feeling 
pleasantly dreamy and sentimental when Sunday 
came round—but she was sufficiently practical to 
take unusual pains with her toilet and to set forth 
for the trysting-place arrayed in a fashion that 
made the chamber-maid stare and wonder. Some¬ 
how—this being the very first time in her life that 
Miss Pretty had ever had an appointment with a 
young man—she felt instinctively that it was up to 
her to look her best. She was already aware that 
Simmons admired her and she had no objection to 
his admiration reaching still greater heights. 

Simmons, on his part, had also taken great pains 
in the adorning of himself. Even if he had red 
hair, a longish nose, and small sharp eyes, he 


THE WOOD AND THE ORCHARD 225 


possessed a graceful figure and a taking address, 
and ever since he had blossomed into young—very 
young manhood, he had been most punctilious in 
arraying the one and cultivating the other. He 
saved every shilling he could lay hold of towards 
the cost of his wardrobe, and the tailor in the High 
Street had no more exacting or particular cus¬ 
tomer; Simmons, indeed, as regards his outward 
showing was a veritable mirror of fashion, and 
looked all the more distinguished because his taste 
in clothes was of a quiet and unpretentious sort. 
He knew a cloth and its possibilities as soon as he 
saw it; he knew that severity in tone is the proper 
complement to perfection of cut; there was not a 
trick of the tailoring trade that he was not up to, 
and a Savile Row artist need not have been ashamed 
to take a hint from him. Now Miss Pretty, who 
in some ways was a bit of a feather-brain, had a 
decided weakness for appearances and loved to see 
well-dressed men, and when she met Simmons at 
the appointed place, and noted the perfection of 
his raiment, from his well-chosen hat to his smart 
socks and shoes, the soft feeling which had been 
coming over her for two days and nights deepened 
into absolute surrender to something or other— 
she didn’t know what—and when she gave Sim¬ 
mons her daintily gloved hand it was with shy eyes 


22 6 


THE SAFETY PIN 


and a blush that made him several inches taller— 
figuratively. 

But Simmons was too sharp to show any sign 
of his satisfaction. He was polite, attentive, re¬ 
spectful, informing—a model of good manners; 
Miss Pretty thought him delightfully simple and 
unaffected. But all unknown to her Simmons was 
being sly and crafty enough. He knew every inch 
of the surroundings of Southernstowe and where 
Sunday strollers were likely to be and not to be, 
and he took Miss Pretty by lonely and deserted 
paths, and through still leafy lanes and quiet cop¬ 
pices and so managed things that they walked in 
satisfactory solitude from the edge of the town to 
Danesley Dingle. It was solitary enough there, but 
after Simmons had discharged his duties as guide 
and shown his companion the ancient earthworks, 
tumuli, and archaeological features of the spot, he 
purposely led her into still more solitary recesses 
of the neighbouring woods. And then, in a quiet 
alcove amongst the pines, he suggested that they 
should rest on a conveniently fallen tree. Miss 
Pretty was by no means averse; she had been won¬ 
dering, secretly, for half-an-hour, if Simmons was 
going to make love to her. She sat down and 
began to draw patterns in the sandy soil with the 
tip of her slender umbrella; Simmons seated him- 


THE WOOD AND THE ORCHARD 227 


self at her side; silence fell on the solitude . . . 
and on them. But suddenly Simmons spoke—his 
voice as sugary as it was soft. 

“Fancy being here with you!” said Simmons. 

Miss Pretty gave him a side-glance and found 
his penetrating eyes fixed on her—she thought, on 
a certain dimple in her cheek. 

“Why?” she asked, demurely. 

“Couldn’t have believed it possible!” declared 
Simmons. “Any more,” he added boldly, “any 
more than I could have believed that—that you 
hadn’t already got a sweetheart! That’s—incred¬ 
ible!” 

“Why incredible?” asked Miss Pretty, laughing 
softly. 

“Why? Marvellous!” exclaimed Simmons. 
“Extraordinary! Do you know what I said to 
myself that first time you walked into Shelmore’s?” 

“No!” murmured Miss Pretty. 

Simmons edged himself nearer to her and sank 
his voice to a whisper that suggested conviction as 
well as confidence. 

“I said to myself, ‘By George!’ I said, ‘that’s 
the prettiest girl I ever saw,’ I said. I did—and 
I meant it, too. Fact!” 

“Nonsense!” said Miss Pretty. 

“Is it!” protested Simmons. “Not much! No! 


228 


THE SAFETY PIN 


—do you think I’m blind? Besides, every time 
I’ve seen you I’ve thought the same. With a dif¬ 
ference.” 

“What difference?” asked Miss Pretty. 

“Just this!” declared Simmons. “Every time 
I’ve seen you, I’ve thought you prettier and prettier! 
But then, what wonder? I never saw a girl with 
such eyes, or such hair—or such a pretty mouth! 
I say; don’t be cross!—Shouldn’t I like to kiss you! 
By George! Shouldn’t I!” 

Miss Pretty looked down and blushed. But 
Simmons saw a slight curve show itself at the 
corner of her lips next to him. It spread—and 
he slipped his arm round her slender waist. 

“What do you say?” he whispered. “Come!— 
why not?” 

Miss Pretty made another pattern with her um¬ 
brella and regarded it steadily. 

“Never have been!” she faltered. 

“No reason why you shouldn’t be!” protested 
Simmons and drew her closer. “Come along!— 
We’re all alone!” 

Miss Pretty glanced around her. Certainly the 
place seemed secret enough. And Simmons’s arm 
was appealing. 

“Won’t you let me?” he whispered. “Come, 


now. 


THE WOOD AND THE ORCHARD 229 


Miss Pretty again glanced round—shyly anxious. 
“Sure there’s nobody about?” she asked. 
“Shouldn’t like anybody to—” 

“Not a soul!” declared Simmons. “Quiet as the 
grave here . . . nobody. ...” 

Miss Pretty released her hold on the umbrella. 
It slid to the ground as she half-turned to her 
suppliant. 

“Don’t mind, then!” she whispered. “But—oh, 
what a bold boy you are! Really—” 

Simmons lost no time. His ready lips sought 
Miss Pretty’s. He kissed her once, twice, thrice— 
and yet again. Miss Pretty made no protest against 
repetition. In plain truth, as soon as she had tasted 
the hitherto-unknown fruit, she was not only will¬ 
ing but quietly eager to eat her fill of it. She 
suddenly became demurely complaisant—and within 
a few minutes Simmons had drawn her on to his 
knee, settled her head on his shoulder, and was 
taking toll of her lips in the same lavish spirit as 
that in which she was willing to pay it. Miss 
Pretty closed her eyes. . . . 

Possibly if she had kept them open, she would 
not have seen anything but the leafy boughs and 
kindly shrubs under which she and Simmons were 
hidden. Just then she was giving herself up to the 
excitement and novelty of an actual encounter with 


230 


THE SAFETY PIN 


a lover, and would probably have seen nothing if 
she had owned six pairs of eyes. Nor did Sim¬ 
mons see anything; he had realised in a second that 
Miss Pretty, however experienced she had been, 
was, in his own parlance, about as spoony as ever 
they make ’em, and, the ice being broken, was 
more than willing to meet him half way, and to 
give as good as she got, and he was absorbed in 
taking full advantage of his opportunities. More¬ 
over, he knew that wood and that particular part 
of it; it was a solitude; he had brought Miss Pretty 
there on purpose, knowing its solitude; accord¬ 
ingly, he felt absolutely safe from any observa¬ 
tion. 

But as a matter of fact, Simmons and Miss 
Pretty were observed. Beyond the further edge of 
the wood, set between it and the brow of the 
neighbouring hill, lay a moorland farm, a small 
place from which a working-farmer, one Trevice 
fed a few sheep and cattle. Trevice made little of 
a living out of it, and his grown-up daughters were 
obliged to go into domestic service. One of them, 
Kitty, was house-maid at Mrs. Champernowne’s. 
Now Kitty had every other Sunday afternoon out; 
it was her afternoon out this Sunday. She set off 
to spend it with her father and mother at the farm, 
and knowing the district she took a short cut 


THE WOOD AND THE ORCHARD 231 


through the wood which was just then sheltering 
Mr. Simmons Hackdale and Miss Cynthia Pretty. 
In the deepest part, Catherine heard a girl laughing 
in subdued tones; with all the craft of a young 
woman born and bred to woodland life she slipped 
through the bushes in the direction of the sound. 
And although they never saw her, and hadn’t the 
slightest idea that she was within a dozen yards of 
them, Catherine saw Simmons and the young lady 
who was staying at the Chancellor, and watched 
them . . . and eventually stole away as quietly as 
she had stolen near, and went off—meditating. 

And in the end Simmons and Miss Pretty left 
the wood behind them, and in the Autumn dusk 
went homeward towards Southernstowe by the 
quiet lanes and paths along which they had first 
set out. Each was highly satisfied with the other, 
and when they parted, on the edge of the city, it 
was with a mutual pledge to meet again on the 
following evening. Miss Pretty went to the Chan¬ 
cellor, and Simmons, feeling that he had done a 
splendid afternoon’s work and convinced that Miss 
Pretty was going to be his girl, and perhaps some¬ 
thing still more important, proceeded to his favour¬ 
ite house of call and treated himself to a drink. 
Half way through it, he suddenly remembered Jane 
Pratt—and he let out a sharp whistle. 


232 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Lately, on Sunday evenings, he had attended 
Jane Pratt to church, and had afterwards taken her 
for a quiet walk. He looked at his watch—too 
late. But he could meet her as she came out of 
church. There was plenty of time for that, how¬ 
ever, so he had another drink, and a quiet smoke, 
and he thought a good deal, planning and scheming. 
Miss Pretty and her fortune loomed large in all his 
pictures; it seemed to him that he would make an 
excellent manager of both. 

At last he went round to the Church which Miss 
Pratt patronised. She did not emerge with the 
rest of the congregation, nor at all, so Simmons, 
after assuring himself that she hadn’t been to her 
devotions, went off to Ashenhurst House. There 
existed a code of signals between Jane Pratt and 
himself; one of them brought her out to him in 
the shrubberies. Together, in the darkness, they 
paced into the orchard. 

“You didn’t come to church, Jennie!” whispered 
Simmons. “Why ?” 

“Couldn’t, boy!” replied the parlour-maid. “The 
missus has some people there, and she asked me 
to stay in for once. Can’t stop long with you— 
I’ve got to lay the table for supper.” 

“Well, give me a kiss, anyway,” suggested Sim¬ 
mons. “Time for that, old woman!” 


THE WOOD AND THE ORCHARD 233 


Miss Pratt, like Miss Pretty, had no objection 
to being either kissed or embraced, and she re¬ 
warded Simmons generously for his devotion. 

“Then you haven’t been out at all to-day?” asked 
Simmons, these incidents over. “Not even this 
afternoon.” 

“No!” replied Miss Pratt. “Stopped in all the 
afternoon. Meant to meet you to-night—only these 
people turned up. What’ve you been doing all the 
afternoon?” 

“Oh, usual Sunday business!” answered Sim¬ 
mons, lightly. “Bit of sleep, bit of reading, bit of 
smoking—dull work. All alone of a Sunday, you 
know—John spends all his Sundays at Selbeach, 
by the sad sea waves. Now if I’d only had you 
with me in our sitting-room, Jennie, eh?—nice, 
warm fire, and a nice comfortable sofa before it— 
eh? There—what the deuce is that?” This ex¬ 
clamation was evoked by Simmons striking the toe 
of his elegant shoe against some solid, unusually 
hard object which lay in the grass at his feet: there 
was something in the feel of it which made him 
stoop and grope for it. Another exclamation, half- 
stifled, came from his lips, and to the parlour-maid’s 
astonishment, he suddenly produced and switched 
on a small electric torch. And as its light flared 
across the square foot of ground on which he turned 


234 THE SAFETY PIN 

it he let out another and more earnest and startled 
exclamation. 

“Good God!—what’s this? A revolver!” 

He stood up—stared at his companion—looked 
down again—stooped once more, picked up the re¬ 
volver from the thick grass in which it lay, and 
turned the full flare of his torch on it. Miss Pratt 
uttered a little cry and shrank away from his side. 

“Sim—be careful! Oh! I say—do you think 
that’s—the—you know!” 

“I know!”—muttered Simmons. He was turn¬ 
ing the revolver over, eyeing it keenly and he let 
out another exclamation—as if to himself. 

“Heavens above!” he said. “Who’d have thought 
. . . .” He stopped there and looked at the par¬ 
lour-maid as if something had suddenly bereft him 
of his ready wit. 

“Jennie!” he went on hoarsely. “Jennie!—you see 
this? Not a word, Jennie!—not a word! I—” 

Somewhere in the house a bell rang sharply. 
Miss Pratt started. 

“I must go, Sim,” she whispered. “That thing! 
—you’ll take care! It—it may be loaded. Oh, 
do take care!” 

“I’ll take care!” answered Simmons, in a queer, 
grim voice. “Yes—go!—the bell! And—not a 
word, Jennie—not—” 


THE WOOD AND THE ORCHARD 235 


The parlour-maid hurried away, and Simmons 
left alone, put the revolver in his pocket and moved 
off from the spot where he had found it. But sud¬ 
denly pausing he turned back and carefully paced 
the distance from that spot to the bottom of the 
orchard, where a low hedge divided it from the 
sand-pit in which Deane’s dead body had been 
found. Fifteen yards—well, anybody standing be¬ 
hind that hedge could easily have flung the revolver 
that distance into the orchard. And . . . some¬ 
body had flung it. 

He passed through a gap into the sand-pit, 
crossed its deserted and melancholy expanse, and 
entered a by-lane which led to the square in which 
he lived. He went along with hunched shoulders, 
bowed head, and hands in the pockets of his trou¬ 
sers, absorbed. The afternoon’s amatory adven¬ 
tures with Miss Pretty had vanished clean away 
from his thoughts: he could think of nothing but 
his discovery. He had said nothing to Jane Pratt 
—no, no, he repeated to himself, he had said noth¬ 
ing, not one word to her! But ... he had recog¬ 
nised the revolver. It belonged to John Hackdale, 
his brother. There were John’s initials on it. Oh, 
yes!—it was John’s right enough! And—what 
next? 

He got home at last. In the parlour sacred to 


236 


THE SAFETY PIN 


himself and John supper was laid for the two. 
But Simmons knew all his brother’s Sunday move¬ 
ments: John invariably spent Sunday with friends 
at Selbeach, a seaside place seven miles off, and 
always came home by a certain train; he would 
not be home for a good half-hour. And Simmons 
carried the revolver into his own bedroom, locked 
the door, and carefully examined it. One chamber 
had been discharged. He put the revolver away— 
in secret. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


GREEN EYES 

OUT when Simmons had hidden the revolver in a 
^ place where there was no chance of anyone 
finding it save by a search such as was not likely 
to be made, he proceeded to another stage in the path 
to uncertainty. He had no doubt whatever that the 
revolver was his brother’s: Simmons knew all about 
it, how and why John had got it, and where John 
kept it. There was no secret about that; the re¬ 
volver’s usual resting-place was in a certain drawer 
in John’s bedroom—a drawer in which lay a miscel¬ 
laneous collection of odds and ends and was always 
unlocked. He repaired to that drawer—to make 
sure. There was no revolver there: he had never 
thought there would be. He had the revolver; that 
revolver; the revolver with the initials J. H. 
scratched on the metal. So that.was—that! When 
the whole thing was summarised it came to this— 
He, Simmons, had found a revolver in Mrs. Cham- 


237 


238 


THE SAFETY PIN 


pernowne’s orchard, close to the place whereat James 
Deane’s body had been found, shot through the 
head, and the revolver was undoubtedly the property 
of his brother, John Hackdale. That was certain— 
certain as that he was Simmons and that that was 
cold beef, there on the supper table. 

All right!—but what next? His ideas were still 
a little confused, but he had no doubt about one 
thing. He was going to turn this, and everything 
else connected with it, to his own advantage. All 
his life he had been sedulously sucking into his 
mental system the lesson which his elder brother had 
taught him from childhood—Look to yourself! Self 
first!—and damn the rest!—that was Simmons’ 
creed, and he was a veritable bigot in his belief in 
it. He was not greatly concerned as to whether 
his brother actually shot Deane, or whether Mrs. 
Champernowne did, or whether Mr. Alfred did, but 
he was sure that one or other of ’em did, and that 
he had the means of proving their guilt—probably 
all three were guilty, as principals or accessories. 
Never mind that—it was an insignificant detail; for 
all he cared they could have shot Deane every day in 
the week if they liked. His care was for what he 
could make out of his knowledge. Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne must pay—she was the person with the purse. 
Oh yes!—at last he had got her, and John, and all 


GREEN EYES 


239 


the lot in a string, and he would pull the string! 
—tightening and tightening it until they crawled 
to his feet, if need be. There was only one person 
to be considered—himself. He would cheerfully 
throw Mrs. Champernowne and her brother to the 
police if need be—cheerfully. And John, too,—for 
it was self first, self all the time. But Simmons 
knew there would be no throwing anybody to the 
police—Mrs. C. would pay. And all that was neces¬ 
sary now was to walk warily, make sure of one or 
two little points, and then choose the exact, the 
psychological moment for a swift, determined, ruth¬ 
less stroke. 

His brother came in. Simmons behaved as if 
nothing had happened. He ate his supper, chatted, 
sat up a while smoking cigarettes while John smoked 
his pipe, and eventually went to bed congratulating 
himself on his luck. What with his undoubted suc¬ 
cess with Miss Pretty and his discovery in the 
orchard he had had a good day, a splendid day. He 
slept soundly. 

But if Simmons had only known what was going 
on in a certain bedroom in the domestic quarter at 
Ashenhurst House he would have had nightmare, 
and cold sweats, and shivers that would have shaken 
him from top to toe and left him reduced to the 
condition of a jelly-fish stranded on a rapidly drying 


THE SAFETY PIN 


240 

beach. All unknown to Simmons his candle was 
being undermined, his web torn to fragments, his 
ground cut away from beneath his feet. 

Kitty Trevice returned to Mrs. Champernowne’s 
from her afternoon out at ten o’clock in the even¬ 
ing, and found Jane Pratt and the other servants at 
supper; later, she and Jane retired to the apartment 
which they shared together. Kitty and Jane, be¬ 
cause of long association, were close friends, with 
no secrets about their love affairs, and Kitty was well 
aware that Simmons was Jane’s latest flame and one 
to whom she was not disinclined to stick: she knew, 
in fact, that the parlour-maid was quite willing to 
become Mrs. Simmons Hackdale. And in the pro¬ 
cess of unrobing for the night she suddenly turned 
on her friend with a look that implied more things 
than one. 

“Jennie,” she whispered. “I’ve got something to 
tell you! And you take it in the right way, my dear, 
and be thankful you’ve been warned in time!” 

“Warned!” exclaimed Miss Pratt, turning a sud¬ 
denly suspicious face on Kitty. “What about?— 
who against? What’ve you been hearing?” 

“Hearing, nothing—seeing, a lot!” said Kitty. 
“Look here—don’t you have anything more to do 
with that Simmons Hackdale. He’s having you for 
the mug!” 


GREEN EYES 


241 


Miss Pratt dropped the garment which she was 
about to array herself in, and turned on her friend 
with a gasp. 

“What—whatever do you mean, Kitty Trevice?” 
she said. “Somebody’s been-” 

“Nobody’s been doing anything in the way of tell¬ 
ing me anything,” affirmed the housemaid. “I’m 
talking about what I know myself, so there! Sim¬ 
mons Hackdale is treating you shameful!—he’s de¬ 
ceiving you. He’s walking you out, and making 
love, and all that sort o’ thing—yes, and all the 
time he’s carrying on with that young lady at the 
Chancellor—if she is a lady! Which,” concluded 
Kitty, with a toss of her head, “there might be two 
opinions about.” 

“What do you mean?” repeated Miss Pratt, 
faintly. 

“I’ll tell you,” said Kitty. “When I was going 
home this afternoon, I went through Danesley Old 
Wood—you know how lonely it is there. Well, 
though they never saw me, I saw this Miss Pretty 
and your Sim there—in a nice, quiet corner—oh, 
yes!” 

“You didn’t!” exclaimed Miss Pratt. “He told 
me he was at home this afternoon!” 

“Then he told you a great big story!” declared 
Kitty. “Lor’ bless you!—I was close to ’em. 



2\2 


THE SAFETY PIN 


They’d ha’ been mad enough—she would, anyway, 
I’ll bet!—if they’d known how close!” 

“What—what were they doing?” asked Miss 
Pratt, in still fainter accents. 

“Doing? Kissing and cuddling, like good ’uns— 
or bad ’uns,” answered Kitty. “I can tell you I saw 
plenty! If that’s how young ladies behave with 
young men, well—all I can say is that I’m thankful 
I know how to behave myself better! Anyway, I’m 
telling you the truth, Jennie, and if I were you, next 
time, Sim Hackdale comes whistling round our or¬ 
chard, I should either let him whistle or send him 
off with a flea in his ear—a good-for-nothing young 
scamp!” 

Miss Pratt made no reply. She got into bed. 
Within five minutes she heard Kitty Trevice breath¬ 
ing the faint and regular suspirations of healthy 
sleep. But Miss Pratt did not sleep. She knew 
Kitty, Kitty was a truthful wench. Therefore Sim 
was a wicked liar. Yet—she had taken a great 
fancy to Sim. He had made love to her as she had 
never been made love to before: boy though he was, 
she knew him to be an adept at love-making. She 
had liked him to kiss her at their secret meetings in 
the orchard and the adjacent lanes—and now she 
was told, on positive evidence, that he was expending 
his kisses and embraces on another girl. She had 


GREEN EYES 


243 


seen the other girl—and her fine clothes—and pretty 
face—and all the rest of it. Jealousy, fierce, un¬ 
reasoning, clamorous, sprang up in Miss Pratt’s 
bosom. The longer she lay awake, the fiercer it 
grew. It was with her when at last she slept; it 
was there when she awoke, tired and heavy-eyed in 
the morning; it gnawed at her all day. And now 
and then Kitty Trevice helped to feed its fires. 

After Mrs. Champernowne and Mr. Alfred had 
dined that Monday evening, Jane Pratt asked and 
received permission to go out. She made a very 
careful toilet, and under cover of the dark departed 
townwards. She walked straight to the back en¬ 
trance of the Chancellor Hotel, and going to the 
kitchen door asked for Gracie White. Gracie White 
was another friend of hers who for some time had 
been second chambermaid at the Chancellor and had 
succeeded the erring Mary Sanders as first cham¬ 
bermaid; Miss Pratt thought it more than possible 
that Gracie could tell her something she wanted to 
know. And when Gracie appeared she drew her 
away into a quiet corner of the courtyard. 

‘‘Gracie!” she said. “You know that young 
lady that’s stopping here—the one who’s some¬ 
thing to do with the gentleman that was mur¬ 
dered?” 

“Of course!” answered Gracie. “Miss Pretty. 


244 


THE SAFETY PIN 


She’s on my floor—got a private sitting-room and a 
bedroom there.” 

“I want to know something—between you and 
me,” murmured Miss Pratt. “You know Simmons 
Hackdale?—Does he ever come here to see her?” 

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Gracie. “He’s been here 
several times of an evening. He’s with her 
now.” 

“Now?” said Miss Pratt. “Now?” 

“Yes,” answered Gracie. “She went out just after 
dinner and was out for an hour or so. He came 
back with her. They’re in her sitting-room. 
They’ve been there—oh, some time!” 

“By themselves?” suggested Miss Pratt. 

“Of course,” assented Gracie. “It’s a private 
room. What do you want to know for, Jennie?” 

But Miss Pratt shook her head. 

“Never mind, now,” she answered. “I’ll tell you 
—some other time.” 

Then she bade her friend good-bye and went 
away. She walked very slowly along the street 
outside, her head downcast, her eyes fixed on the 
pavement, as if she were thinking. She was think¬ 
ing—and as a result of her cogitation she suddenly 
looked up, smartened her pace, quitted the centre 
of the city and marching straight to Shelmore’s 
private house on the outskirts, rang the front door 


GREEN EYES 


245 

bell and asked if Miss Pratt could see Mr. Shelmore 
at once on private and highly important business. 

Shelmore, who at that moment was playing chess 
with his maiden aunt, Miss Chauncey, looked up in 
wonder at the maid who delivered Jane’s message. 

“Miss Pratt?” he exclaimed. “Who on earth is 
Miss Pratt?” 

“Mrs. Champernowne’s parlour-maid, sir,” an¬ 
swered the girl. 

Shelmore glanced at his aunt, at the chess-board, 
at the clock on the mantelpiece; finally at the maid. 

“Take her into the study,” he said. 

He went off to the study presently, to find Jane 
Pratt very rigid and pale on the edge of a straight- 
backed chair. She rose at his entrance and made 
him a polite bow; Shelmore saw at once that here 
was a young woman who was obviously agitated, 
but who was also resolute and determined—about 
something. He motioned her to an easy chair by 
his desk. 

“Sit down,” he said kindly. “You want to see 
me—professionally ?” 

Jane Pratt took the chair he pointed out and 
nodded her head—on which was her best smart hat. 

“Yes, Mr. Shelmore, sir, I do,” she answered, a 
little tremulously, but with a gleam in her eyes which 
showed her hearer that whatever it was she had 


246 


THE SAFETY PIN 


come to tell she was going to tell it. “I do, indeed! 
I know something!—and I will not keep it back any 
longer. You’re a lawyer, and you’ll know what to 
do, Mr. Shelmore!—do you know that your clerk 
Simmons Hackdale, is playing a rare game?” 

“What game?” asked Shelmore. 

“A bad, wicked, deceitful game!” declared Jane 
Pratt, with emphasis. “And he’s tried to drag me 
into it!—he’s a tongue that would get round any¬ 
body, I think. But I’ve found him out, and I won’t 
have anything more to do with him or it—I won’t!” 

Shelmore glanced at the door. It was tightly 
shut, and he drew his own chair a little nearer to 
his visitor’s. 

“Tell me all about it,” he said invitingly. “Take 
your time.” 

Jane Pratt took her time. Before she had been 
talking many minutes, Shelmore picked up pencil 
and paper and began to make notes. And when his 
visitor had come to the end of her statement he 
found himself confronting certain points which 
were not only interesting but serious. He glanced 
them over again in silence. 

1. On the night of the murder of James Deane, 
Jane Pratt saw Mrs. Champernowne in company 
with a strange man in the grounds of Ashenhurst 
House. 


GREEN EYES 


247 

2. Jane Pratt told Simmons Hackdale of this in 
strict confidence. 

3. From various things said and done since then 
Jane Pratt formed the opinion that Simmons 
Hackdale was endeavouring to trace the mur¬ 
derer of James Deane—and knew more than he 
had told her. 

4. On a recent evening John Hackdale and James 
Bartlett called on Mrs. Champernowne. John 
Hackdale saw her alone; then fetched in Bart¬ 
lett. Jane Pratt watched through drawing-room 
window and saw Mrs. Champernowne write a 
cheque and hand it to John Hackdale, in James 
Bartlett’s presence. 

5. Jane Pratt told Simmons Hackdale of this, and 
at his suggestion appropriated the sheet of blot¬ 
ting-paper on which Mrs. Champernowne had 
dried the cheque. Simmons, by means of a hand- 
mirror, showed her that the cheque was made 
out for £1000. 

6. On the previous evening, she and Simmons 
being in the orchard of Mrs. Champernowne’s 
house, Simmons picked up a revolver which had 
been lying amongst the long grass. He carried 
it away with him. 

Shelmore read his notes twice through. Then 
he gave Jane Pratt a steady, searching look. 

“I gather from what you say that you and Sim¬ 
mons have been—sweethearts, eh?” he asked. 

“He forced his attentions on me!” answered Jane 
Pratt. “I didn’t go after him!” 


248 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“But—you’ve evidently been keeping company,” 
said Shelmore. “Pretty closely, I think! Now— 
what’s happened to make you come and tell me all 
this?” 

Jane Pratt hesitated, studying the pattern of the 
carpet. 

“You can say anything you like to a solicitor, 
you know,” suggested Shelmore. “Come, now— 
you’ve had some reason for—is it jealousy? There’s 
some other girl?” 

Jane Pratt’s anger flared up. 

“Girl?” she exclaimed. “It’s that fine young 
madam at the Chancellor! He’s carrying on with 
her! He was with her—kissing her—and all that 
—in Danesley Old Wood yesterday afternoon, and 
—and then he’d been promising to marry me, as 
soon as ever he got this reward.” 

Shelmore preserved an unmoved countenance— 
even at the mention of Miss Pretty. 

“I see,” he said. “Evidently playing a double 
game. Very wicked of him! But now, is there any 
other reason for your coming to me?” 

“Well!” answered Jane Pratt, after a pause, 
during which her temper appeared to cool down a 
little. “There is that revolver business. That 
frightened me—seemed to—to-” 



GREEN EYES 


249 

“To bring the murder rather too close, eh?” sug¬ 
gested Shelmore. 

“Yes,” assented his visitor. “When it comes to 
revolvers, I don’t want to have anything more to 
do with it. Nor with Sim Hackdale! He’s bad— 
he can’t open his lips without lying! And I’ve told 
you all about it, Mr. Shelmore.” 

“Very well,” said Shelmore. “Now then, listen 
to me. Don’t mention one word of all this until you 
see me again—I’ll attend to it. Keep it as close as 

_ tf 

“There’s nobody can be closer than I can if I like, 
Mr. Shelmore,” interrupted Jane Pratt. 

“Then—be close,” repeated Shelmore. “Keep 
absolute silence—and wait!” 

He saw her out of his front door, and watched 
her go away. And though he went back to the 
chess-board, Miss Chauncey soon perceived that his 
thoughts were not with it or her. 


CHAPTER XIX 

THE MAN WHO GOT OUT 

YV 7 HILE Simmons Hackdale slept soundly and 
Jane Pratt cried herself to sleep as a result 
of her fit of mingled jealousy, anger, and revenge, 
Shelmore lay awake, sorely perplexed by what he 
had heard from the parlour-maid. He was not alto¬ 
gether surprised at her news about Simmons: for 
some time he had realised that his clerk was a crafty 
and astute young person, of great natural ability, 
who would, probably, sooner or later, arrive at 
a turning-point in life and be obliged to decide 
whether he would abide by a straight road or deviate 
into a crooked one. Nor was he surprised by what 
he had heard of Miss Cynthia Pretty. He and his 
aunt had shown considerable hospitality to that 
young lady and had consequently seen a great deal 
of her, and Shelmore had come to the conclusion 
that she was not only resolved on having her own 
way about anything and everything but was also a 


250 


THE MAN WHO GOT OUT 


251 


flirt who might easily develop into a female rake. 
In a strictly professional way, he had advised Miss 
Pretty to go home to Camborne and leave matters 
to him; Miss Pretty had made a mouth and intimated 
that she was quite well where she was, for a time, 
and had let him see plainly that she loved liberty, 
and knew that nobody could prevent her from exer¬ 
cising it. No!—there was nothing in all that to 
surprise him; he was conscious of the fact that Miss 
Pretty had tried to flirt with him and that he had 
remained severely cold: no wonder, then, that she 
had turned to his clerk, who, as he well knew, 
would be as plausible as he was crafty, and as in¬ 
gratiating as he was sly. He was not sure that Sim 
Hackdale and Cynthia Pretty would not make a 
well-matched, materialistic young couple. 

No again!—those were not the perplexing things. 
What did perplex him was the question—what was 
it all leading to? Deane asking information of Bel¬ 
ling as to who and what Mrs. Champernowne was 
—Mrs. Champernowne being seen in her own 
grounds on the night of the murder with a stranger 
who was almost certainly Deane—Deane’s dead and 
murdered body being found just behind Mrs. Cham- 
pernowne’s grounds—Mrs. Champernowne giving a 
cheque to John Hackdale in James Bartlett’s pres¬ 
ence—the finding of the revolver in Mrs. Champer- 


252 


THE SAFETY PIN 


nowne’s orchard—what, brought into co-relation did 
all these things mean; what did they suggest ? Shel- 
more fell asleep over these questions; they were with 
him when he awoke next morning. 

“Mellapont!” he muttered as he rose. “Mella- 
pont! I must see him at once.” 

He took the police-station on his way to the office, 
judging it best to see the Superintendent before he 
saw Simmons. Closeted with Mellapont, and armed 
with the notes he had taken, he disclosed everything 
that Jane Pratt had told him the night before. Mel- 
lapont’s obvious amazement increased as the story 
went on. 

“Do you think that’s all true ?” he asked, as Shel- 
more made an end. “That the girl wasn’t—well, 
exaggerating if not inventing? She admitted that 
she came to you out of jealousy. Now a jealous 
woman—eh ?” 

“I’ve no hesitation in saying that I consider her 
an absolutely credible witness,” said Shelmore. “I 
don’t think she was either inventing or exaggerating. 
I think that the finding of the revolver Sunday 
night made her reflect more seriously—in addition 
to her jealousy about my clerk, she got the 
feeling that things were getting—well, a bit too 
hot.” 

“You’ve thought a good deal about it since last 


THE MAN WHO GOT OUT 253 

night, no doubt ?” suggested Mellapont. “Weighed 
it up, of course ?” 

“I’ve thought about nothing else,” replied Shel- 
more, grimly. 

“Well?—what do you make of it?” asked Mella¬ 
pont. 

Shelmore shook his head. But the gesture 
denoted not so much perplexity as a certain regret 
that the necessity for coming to a conclusion should 
have arisen. 

“I don’t think there can be any doubt that in some 
way or another, Mrs. Champernowne has been and is 
mixed up in the affair,” he answered. “If you re¬ 
member, Mellapont, when you and I first made 
enquiries at the Chancellor, Belling told us that 
when Deane returned from the Picture-House that 
night—the night of his arrival here, and, as far as 
we know, of his murder-” 

“From the medical evidence, it was the night of 
his murder,” interrupted Mellapont. “The medical 
men agreed that he’d been dead forty-eight hours or 
thereabouts when John Hackdale found the body 
that Wednesday evening.” 

“Very well—on the night of his murder, then,” 
continued Shelmore. “You remember, anyway, that 
Belling told us that on his return from the Picture- 
House, Deane asked him questions about Mrs. 



254 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Champernowne. How do we know that he hadn’t 
recognised Mrs. Champernowne as somebody he 
knew ?” 

“But he asked Belling—to begin with—who she 
was?” said Mellapont. “He didn’t know who she 
was until Belling told him. I remember that—dis- 
tinctly.” 

“That may have been a blind,” remarked Sheh 
more. “He may have known well enough who she 
was and yet have wanted for reasons of his own 
not to let it be known that he knew. What he pro¬ 
bably wanted was information about her status in 
Southernstowe. What more likely than that he 
should preface his questioning of Belling by asking 
who the lady was who seemed to be a person of 
some consequence ? I think Deane knew Mrs. 
Champernowne. And I think it was Deane who 
was with Mrs. Champernowne in her grounds that 
night.” 

“If we only knew that for certain,” said Mella¬ 
pont. “If!” 

“It seems to me to fit in,” said Shelmore. “Any¬ 
way, we do know that Deane, evidently acting on 
some sudden impulse, left the Chancellor and went 
out. It must have been Deane that this girl saw! 
But after that—ah! There are missing links, of 
course—always are! Can they be supplied?” 


THE MAN WHO GOT OUT 


255 


“That episode can—and will have to be—gone 
into,” remarked Mellapont. “For instance, if it 
comes to further questioning the girl, I should ask 
her more about her mistress’s movements that night, 
after she’d been seen with this man in the grounds 
—did she go into the house soon after Jane Pratt 
saw her with him, or did she stay out any time 
longer? Important, that! But what I’m most 
curious about, Shelmore, is the Hackdale-Bartlett- 
cheque incident. Hackdale and Bartlett have an 
interview with Mrs. Champernowne. She’s seen to 
write out a cheque and hand it to Hackdale. Now 
if Hackdale had been alone, I shouldn’t have thought 
much of it. But Bartlett was with him. Presum¬ 
ably, the cheque was for the two of them. Why? 
Bartlett is a sly fellow—unprincipled! And this 
puts me in mind of something—up to very recently 
Bartlett was in very low water, very low water in¬ 
deed. He was hanging about the city—why, as a 
matter of fact, he was glad to go errands, or hold 
a horse? He was thankful for a shilling. He dis¬ 
appeared suddenly—and then all of a sudden, he 
turns up with information about that watch and he’s 
well-dressed, smart, was very smart, as you may 
have observed: good clothes, linen, boots, hat. 
Where did he get his money? Strikes me, Shel¬ 
more, Bartlett probably knows a damned lot.” 


256 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Do you know where he is—now?” asked Shel¬ 
more. 

“I do, fortunately,” answered Mellapont. “He’s 
living in Portsmouth, and I have his address. I told 
him he’d have to be in attendance when Kight and 
Sanders are brought up again, and he told me where 
he was staying, quite willingly. I shall be on to Bart¬ 
lett, he knows something! But now—this clerk of 
yours, young Sim? What’s he after?” 

“The reward which Miss Pretty so foolishly of¬ 
fered,” replied Shelmore. “He’s greedy about 
money! That’s his notion—the reward!” 

“Aye!” said Mellapont. “But—are you sure! 
Looks to me as if the young ferret was quietly 
gathering all the information he could for—another 
purpose.” 

“What?” asked Shelmore. 

Mellapont gave his caller a knowing look. 

“Mrs. Champernowne’s a very wealthy woman, 
Shelmore,” he said. “She’s wealthier than Miss 
Pretty, I guess! There’s such a thing as—black¬ 
mail !” 

Shelmore started. He had not thought of 
that. 

“May be,” he said. “He’s—unprincipled.” 

“You haven’t said anything to him since seeing 
Jane Pratt?” asked Mellapont. “You haven’t?— 


THE MAN WHO GOT OUT 


257 


that’s good. Look here, let’s meet craft with craft. 
Do you think you could get Master Simmons clean 
out of the town, at once, within an hour or two, for 
a couple of days?” 

“Why?” asked Shelmore, in surprise. 

“So as to prevent him from communicating with 
anybody, Jane Pratt and Miss Pretty in particular, 
while I get to work,” answered Mellapont. “Ad¬ 
mirable, I assure you!” 

“I could,” said Shelmore, after a moment’s reflec¬ 
tion. “Yes—I can send him away at once, to Lon¬ 
don, on business that’ll keep him there a day or two 
—three, if you like.” 

“Two will do,” said Mellapont. “Get him off at 
once until day after to-morrow. In the meantime—” 
he gave his caller a significant glance—“in the 
meantime, I’ll make some enquiries that’ll help me 
to be better fitted to encounter him than we are now! 
You’ll be careful, of course, not to let him know 
that you’ve heard anything?” 

“Oh, of course!” said Shelmore. “I’ve an excel¬ 
lent excuse for sending him away—excellent! He’ll 
think it’s all in the way of business.” 

He rose to go, and Mellapont rose, too. But ere 
they reached the door, the Superintendent pointed 
to the chair which Shelmore had left. 

“Just sit down again for five minutes, Shelmore,” 


258 


THE SAFETY PIN 


he said. “I’ve an idea! I won’t keep you longer— 
less, perhaps.” 

He left the room and within the five minutes was 
back again, looking unusually grave. 

“I say,” he said in a low voice, coming up to 
Shelmore’s side. “I’ve just found out something 
that’s a bit—well, both serious and significant. You 
know that anybody who wants to keep fire-arms 
now-a-days have not only to take out a license but to 
get police permission?” 

“Of course!” replied Shelmore. 

“Well, I’ve just looked over our register,” con¬ 
tinued Mellapont. “I find that Mrs. Champernowne 
has a revolver. So has John Hackdale.” 

Shelmore reflected a moment in silence. 

“Yes,” he said at last, “but if—if either she or 
he did—what we know was done, it’s not at all 
likely that the revolver used in doing it would be 
thrown away in that orchard! Is it, now ?” 

“Quite true, it isn’t!—You’re right there,” agreed 
Mellapont. “However, get that clerk of yours out 
of the way while I make some enquiries. You don’t 
know what he’ll be getting his nose into if he stops 
about here—I don’t want him in the town just now.” 

Shelmore went away to his office. He was not 
exactly clear in his own mind as to why Mellapont 
wanted to clear Simmons out of Southernstowe for 


THE MAN WHO GOT OUT 


•259 


forty-eight hours, but the proposal fitted in with his 
own inclinations; somehow or other, he scarcely 
knew why, he had just then no great liking for his 
clerk’s company. And as soon as he had gone 
through his letters he turned on Simmons, intent on 
getting him off at once. 

“Hackdale!—you can leave all that for me to at¬ 
tend to; that, and everything else,” he said. “There’s 
something I want you to do. You know that pro¬ 
perty we’re negotiating about on behalf of Major 
Hampole ?” 

“The Dorsetshire property?” answered Simmons. 
“Yes?” 

“I’m not at all satisfied about the reports we’ve 
had of it,” continued Shelmore. “I’d like to have 
it personally inspected. I want you to go off at once 
—this morning—and have a thorough look over it. 
You can catch the 11.28, can’t you?—that’ll enable 
you to get the 12.14 f° r Dorchester at Portsmouth.” 

Simmons glanced at his watch. 

“Oh, yes, I can catch that,” he answered. “Plenty 
of time. No time to see much this afternoon, 
though. It’s a four or five hours’ run to Dorches¬ 
ter.” 

“Of course not!” agreed Shelmore. “You’ll get 
down there to-day, and look round to-morrow and 
the following morning. I’ll write a cheque for your 


26 o 


THE SAFETY PIN 


expenses. There's no need to get home to-morrow 
—I want you to make a thorough inspection of that 
farm. See what state of repair it's in as regards 
buildings, fences, roads, and all that—the letters 
about it are vague. Keep your eyes open to every¬ 
thing about it—Major Hampole will be calling in a 
few days, and I want to be able to tell him the pre¬ 
cise, facts about the condition of the property he’s 
proposing to buy.” 

“I understand,” answered Simmons. “I’ll see to 
it.” 

He presently took the cheque which Shelmore 
wrote out and went away to cash it at the neigh¬ 
bouring bank and to hurry to his rooms and pack 
a bag. He had no objection to a mission of this 
sort; it meant staying at a good hotel, eating and 
drinking of the best, seeing new places and new 
people, and generally having a good time. True, he 
had an appointment with Miss Pretty for that even¬ 
ing, but he would send her a wire from Portsmouth 
saying that he was called away on business for a 
day or two; as for his other plots and plans they 
must wait until he came back. With every intention 
of enjoying himself on the liberal amount of ex¬ 
pense-money in his pocket, he went off to the station 
and bought his ticket. 

Five minutes later Simmons wished that he hadn’t 


THE MAN WHO GOT OUT 


261 


bought a ticket at all—or that he had only taken 
one to Portsmouth instead of booking right through 
to Dorchester. This wish came into existence by 
his looking out of the window of his compartment 
at the very last moment, in quest of a newspaper 
boy. There was no newspaper boy handy—but Sim¬ 
mons saw and recognised a man who had evidently 
just left the train—a London to Portsmouth express 
—and who was giving the porter instructions about 
his suit-case. A well-fed, rosy-cheeked, substantial- 
looking man, with a professional air: a stranger, 
observant people would have said, by the way he 
looked about him and the questions he was asking. 
But Simmons knew him and muttered his name in 
accents of anxious wonder. Mr. Palsford, solicitor, 
of Normansholt!—head of the firm on which he, 
Simmons, had waited recently, at the time when 
Swilford Swale told him the mysterious story of 
Arradeane and his disappearance. Palsford of 
course!—no mistaking him. What was he doing 
there—in Southernstowe ?” 

But Simmons’s ready wit supplied the answer to 
the question as soon as it was asked. The dispute 
between Sir Reville Childerstone and his tenant at 
Normansholt was still going on; it was indeed more 
of a dispute than ever; Palsford had probably 
thought it well, on behalf of his client, to come and 


262 


THE SAFETY PIN 


see Shelrmore personally about it. For that Sim¬ 
mons cared nothing: Pals ford, or his partner, or his 
clerks could come to Southernstowe and jaw about 
legal matters as much as ever they liked for all it 
mattered to him. But Pals ford was a Normansholt 
man; Palsford would know all about the Arradeane 
case of many years ago. Supposing, while he was in 
Southernstowe, he saw Mrs. Champernowne, who 
was always a good deal about the town, and recog¬ 
nised her as Mrs. Arradeane—a not unlikely thing— 
what would happen?—Where would he, Simmons, 
be?—Where would his rapidly-maturing schemes of 
personal profit get to? What had seemed half-an- 
hour ago a bit of luck now seemed a misfortune. He 
ought to be on the spot—ready for any eventuality. 

But—he had not gone far. Nor did he go far. 
He left the train at Portsmouth and instead of catch¬ 
ing the 12.14 to Dorchester, went to a hotel and 
lunched. He thought, and thought—and could not 
decide what to do. Eventually he decided to stay in 
Portsmouth for the night, and to consider matters 
more deeply. Dining early in the evening at his 
hotel, he subsequently went out for the theatre. And 
going theatre-ward, Simmons got a further shock. 
There on the other side of the street he saw Bart¬ 
lett—in company with Superintendent Mellapont. 


CHAPTER XX 


COIL WITHIN COIL 

r Jp HE comfortable-and-prosperous-looking gentle¬ 
man whom Simmons Hackdale had recog¬ 
nised as Mr. Palsford, solicitor of Normansholt, 
having made due enquiry at Southernstowe railway 
station as to the best hotel in the place, left his lug¬ 
gage to be sent on there, and walked slowly away 
into the streets. In so small a town he had little 
difficulty in finding the office he wanted, and before 
Simmons had travelled half way to Portsmouth, Mr. 
Palsford was climbing the stairs which the clerk had 
so lately descended. He opened the door of the 
ante-room in which Simmons usually sat, and find¬ 
ing it empty, rapped on the table: Shelmore poked 
his head out of the inner office. 

“Mr. Palsford, of Normansholt!” announced the 
caller, with a bland smile. “Mr. Shelmore, I pre¬ 
sume ?” 

Shelmore looked his surprise and hastened to get 
his fellow-solicitor inside. 


263 


264 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“My clerk’s away for the time being,” he re¬ 
marked, as he drew forward an easy chair. “I only 
run one at present, Mr. Palsford—early days. But 
what brings you into these parts?” 

“I had business in London,” replied Palsford, with 
a benign smile. “And I thought, when it was over, 
that being within sixty miles of your interesting 
city, I would kill three birds with one stone, Mr. 
Shelmore. The first—I would see Southernstowe, 
which I have often heard of and never seen. The 
second—this affair between your client, Sir Reville 
Childerstone, and my client, his tenant. The third— 
possibly—I say possibly—the most important of the 
three.” 

“And what’s that?” asked Shelmore. 

Palsford, with an enigmatic smile playing about 
his lips, produced a long cigarette holder, a cigarette 
case, and a box of matches. He continued to smile 
while adjusting a cigarette to the holder; he was still 
smiling when he had lighted the cigarette and puffed 
at it a little. There was something sly, confidential, 
and humorous about the smile, and Shelmore began 
to be inquisitive. 

“You are a Southernstowe man, Mr. Shelmore?” 
suggested Palsford. “Native?” 

“I am!” admitted Shelmore. “Born and bred 
here.” 


COIL WITHIN COIL 


265 


“Then you know everybody. Do you know a 
lady here who calls herself Mrs. Champernowne ?” 

Shelmore stared in astonishment. 

“ ‘Calls herself’ ?” he exclaimed. “That implies— 
but yes, certainly I know Mrs. Champernowne! 
Who doesn’t? She’s Mayor of Southernstowe, a 
very smart and capable business woman; and very 
wealthy. What about her?” 

Palsford smiled again, and producing a pocket- 
book, drew from amongst a quantity of papers a 
cutting which he laid on Shelmore’s desk. Shel¬ 
more found himself looking at a reproduced picture 
of Mrs. Champernowne, beneath which were a few 
lines of print. 

“That she?” asked Palsford, laconically. 

“To be sure!” said Shelmore. “A recent photo¬ 
graph !” 

“Very good!” remarked Palsford. “Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne, Mayor of Southernstowe. But I knew 
that lady as—somebody else!” 

Shelmore started again. His eyes grew incred¬ 
ulous. But Palsford only smiled. 

“As—somebody else!” he repeated. “I knew her 
as a Mrs. Arradeane, she lived in my own town some 
twenty years ago. I have no more doubt that Mrs. 
Champernowne of Southernstowe and Mrs. Arra¬ 
deane late of Normansholt are one and the same 


266 


THE SAFETY PIN 


person than I have that that is the eminently grace¬ 
ful spire of Southernstowe Cathedral which I see 
through your window!” 

Shelmore was feeling as a man might feel who 
has been brought nose-close to a curtain which is 
just about to be drawn up. What lay behind? Be¬ 
fore he could speak, Palsford went on, tapping the 
scrap of paper. 

“I happened to pick that up on my wife’s table,” 
he said. “I mean—the paper I cut it from—a 
fashionable society paper. You see, Shelmore, what 
it announces beneath the picture ?—that Mrs. Cham- 
pernowne is shortly to marry Sir Reville Childer- 
stone—your client. Is that so?” 

“That is so—oh, yes!” assented Shelmore. 

Palsford waved his cigarette holder. 

AH right!” he said. “But—if she’s the woman 
I’m confident she is, she can’t marry Sir Reville 
Childerstone nor any other man. That’s flat!” 

“Why?” asked Shelmore. 

“Because her husband’s alive!” answered Pals¬ 
ford, drily. “That’s why.” 

“You mean that—that, if Mrs. Champernowne is 
really Mrs. Arradeane, there’s some man named Ar- 
radeane, her husband, actually alive?” asked Shel¬ 
more. “That it?” 

“Some man ? A man !—the man!” said Palsford. 


COIL WITHIN COIL 


267 


“James Arradeane, the husband of the woman I 
knew as Mrs. Arradeane, and whom I believe to be 
identical with your Mrs. Champernowne, is, I tell 
you, alive. Or,” he suddenly added, “he was, four 
months ago!—and I haven’t heard of his death.” 

Shelmore sat staring alternately at the photograph 
and at his caller. He suddenly turned on Pals ford, 
with an abrupt question. 

“Had your Mrs. Arradeane a brother who lived 
with her who was known as-” 

“As Mr. Alfred?” laughed Palsford. “Precisely! 
Has-” 

“She has!” said Shelmore. “Good Lord—this is 
worse than ever!” 

“What’s worse than ever ?” demanded the visitor. 

Shelmore rose from his chair, thrust his hands in 
his pockets and began to pace the room, evidently 
deep in thought. Palsford fitted another cigarette 
in his holder and went on smoking quietly. At last 
Shelmore came back to his chair. 

“Look here!” he said. “Have you read, in the 
papers, about what has been called the Southern- 
stowe, or the Sand-Pit Mystery—a murder case?” 

“No!—not that I remember,” answered Palsford. 
“Don’t read murders—no interest in ’em—not even 
professionally. Not my line, Shelmore.” 

“Nor mine,” said Shelmore. “But one’s some- 




268 


THE SAFETY PIN 


times forced into things. Well—it’s this. A stranger 
—a well-to-do man, calling himself James Deane 
_ 

“Eh!” exclaimed Palsford, sharply, “James— 
Deane ?” 

“James Deane,” repeated Shelmore, “—came to 
stay at the Chancellor Hotel here for a few days not 
very long ago, and was murdered—shot—on the 
very midnight of his arrival. His dead body was 
found in a disused sand-pit behind Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s grounds. Up to now, the mystery of his 
death hasn’t been solved, but I may tell you that 
there are serious grounds for believing Mrs. Cham- 
pernowne to have had, if not active participation, 
at least complicity in the murder. Now this Deane.” 

“Who was he?—where did he come from?” asked 
Palsford. 

“Camborne, in Cornwall,” replied Shelmore. “He 
was part-proprietor of a tin mine; his partner, a nice 
girl, is staying in the town now, at the Chancellor 
Hotel—you’ll be sure to see her, while you’re here. 
She says that this man—James Deane, who’d been 
her father’s partner, and was her guardian, was by 
profession a mining engineer.” 

Pals ford’s countenance, usually inclined to a bene¬ 
volent jollity, had become very grave. He was rub¬ 
bing his chin, thoughtfully. 


COIL WITHIN COIL 269 

“Odd, odd, odd!” he muttered. “A small world, 
after all! Deuced odd! And—murder?” 

“You don’t think this man James Deane could be 
the James Arradeane of whom you spoke just now?” 
asked Shelmore. 

“No!” answered Palsford, with decision. “I’ll 
tell you straight out, Shelmore. James Arradeane, 
the husband of the woman we’re discussing, is in 
Australia, and has been for over twenty years. But 
I’m in communication with him four times a year— 
he has some property here in England which I man¬ 
age. No!—this man wouldn’t be James Arradeane. 
But—I’ve a pretty good idea who he was.” 

“Who, then?” asked Shelmore. 

“My man had a cousin of the very same name,” 
replied Palsford. “Another James Arradeane who 
lived in London—he was a mining engineer—they 
both were. I’ve met the London man—just once. 
Twenty-one—or -two years ago. But I’ve never 
heard of him since. I guess that’s the man, Shel¬ 
more! He must have changed his name to Deane, 
left London, and gone to Cornwall. Good heavens!” 

“Why should he be murdered?” asked Shelmore. 

Palsford threw away.his cigarette, put the holder 
in his pocket, and gave the younger man a keen, sug¬ 
gestive look. 

“Probably,” he answered in low tones, “probably 


270 


THE SAFETY PIN 


because he knew that the other James Arradeane was 
alive and was threatening to stop what would have 
been a bigamous marriage! That’s about it, Shel- 
more. But look here—this thing is assuming much 
more serious aspects than I’d any idea of. After 
what I’ve told you, and after what you’ve told me, 
it’ll have to be gone into. But—let me be certain, 
absolutely, positively certain that I’m not mistaken 
about the woman! I’m as confident as man can be 
that your Mrs. Champernowne is the Mrs. Arra¬ 
deane who left Normansholt some twenty years ago 
and if I could set eyes on her-” 

“You can do that within five minutes,” interrupted 
Shelmore, glancing at his watch. “The City Coun¬ 
cil is sitting now close by—come away, and we’ll 
just look in.” 

He led his visitor up the street to the City Hall, 
and into a dark corner in the public gallery of the 
Council Chamber, where Mrs. Champernowne was 
at that moment presiding over a debate. Within five 
minutes Palsford nudged his guide’s elbow. 

“Yes!” he whispered. “Oh, yes! that’s the 
woman! Let’s get out of this.” 

Shelmore was only too glad to get out. The dis¬ 
closures of the last few hours were beginning to con¬ 
fuse him; he wanted to start on the job of 
straightening them out. And when they left the 



COIL WITHIN COIL 


271 


Council Chamber he sheered Pals ford away in the 
direction of Mellapont’s office at the police-station. 

“She’s very little altered,” remarked Palsford as 
they went away. “Wonderfully well-preserved 
woman—always a smart, clever woman. Well!— 
I’d no idea that I was going to be cast into a maze 
of this sort! Has this superintendent of yours got 
hold of any thread that will lead us out of it?” 

“I want you to tell him all you’ve told me,” an¬ 
swered Shelmore. “Of course, there’s a great deal 
that’s happened here that I haven’t told you of, yet. 
You, Mellapont, and I had better have a regular con¬ 
sultation.” 

Mellapont heard all that Palsford had to say— 
listening in absorbed silence. In the end he asked 
a direct question. 

“You say that this man James Arradeane, whom 
you knew at Normansholt as the husband of the 
woman whom we, here know as Mrs. Champer- 
nowne, is still alive?” he said. “You’re sure of it?” 

“He was alive four months ago,” replied Pals¬ 
ford. “That was when he last wrote to me. I 
could establish this fact of his being alive within 
forty-eight hours, by cabling to him. He lives in 
Melbourne.” 

“What are your relations with him?” enquired 
Mellapont. 


272 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“When he left Normansholt,” answered Palsford, 
“he left some property in my hands. I remit the 
receipts from it—rent, you know—to him, every 
quarter.” 

“Under what circumstances did he leave Normans¬ 
holt ?” asked Mellapont. “According to what you 
say, he left suddenly, leaving his wife behind him, 
and disappeared. You aren’t suggesting that it was 
in collusion with her?” 

“No,” replied Palsford. “I’ll tell you all about it 
—I believe, indeed, I’m sure, I’m the only person 
who knows the truth. To this day, people in Nor¬ 
mansholt talk about the extraordinary disappearance 
of James Arradeane, but nobody but myself knows 
anything about it. The facts are these—Arradeane, 
who wanted to get interested financially, in coal¬ 
mines in our neighbourhood, came to live in Nor¬ 
mansholt with his wife and her brother. He and 
his wife, it was soon well known, were both persons 
of considerable means—very well off. But it was 
also soon well known that they didn’t get on to¬ 
gether. There were various reasons. His tastes 
weren’t hers—hers weren’t his. They had no child¬ 
ren—so there was the absence of that particular 
bond. He objected to her brother, from whom she 
wouldn’t be parted—a weak, good-for-nothing idler, 
born to be a parasite on anybody who would keep 


COIL WITHIN COIL 


273 


him! Altogether things were neither smooth nor 
pleasant. And I very well remember that Arradeane 
at last came to me, and said, in confidence, that he’d 
had enough of it, and was quietly going to clear 
clean out. He told me that all his affairs were in 
order; all his accounts squared: a certain sum of 
money—considerable—was paid in to his wife’s 
separate account at her bank, and that she had plenty 
of money of her own—which I already knew. He 
further said that he should make no fuss, no bother, 
no announcement, but just walk off. He did—with¬ 
out notice to me, and the next I heard of him, he 
was in Melbourne, where he’s been ever since.” 

“In his correspondence with you has he ever men¬ 
tioned her?” asked Mellapont. 

“Never!—never once,” replied Palsford. “The 
notion was that there should be a clean cut. And 
as I tell you, it certainly was so on his part. He 
just—vanished!” 

“Did she ever make any effort to find him?” en¬ 
quired Shelmore. “Wasn’t any search instituted?” 

“Not while she remained in Normansholt,” said 
Palsford. “But that was not for long. Within a 
very short time of his disappearance she had cleared 
everything up there, sold all her effects, and gone— 
her brother with her. And, as far as I’m concerned, 
I never heard anything of her until I saw that por- 


274 


THE SAFETY PIN 


trait in the lady’s paper and recognised it. I’d no 
doubt about my recognition, and now that I’ve seen 
Mrs. Champernowne in the flesh I know she’s the 
woman I knew at Normansholt as Mrs. Arradeane.” 

“Twenty years is a long time,” remarked Mella- 
pont, musingly. “A very long time!” 

“Oh, well!” said Palsford. “If you doubt my 
being right, just contrive for Mrs. Champernowne 
to see me suddenly! If she doesn’t recognise me at 
once, I’ll eat my hat! But she will!—I haven’t 
changed much in twenty years.” 

“I didn’t mean that you aren’t right,” replied 
Mellapont. “I think you are—I’ve no doubt you 
are. What I meant was that a lot can happen in 
twenty years. She’s been here most of these years, 
and has built up a big business, made a pile of money, 
become mayor of the city, and is contemplating mar¬ 
riage with a baronet!” 

“She can’t marry him!” said Palsford. “Her 
husband is alive! That’s probably what his cousin 
the other James Arradeane, whom I take to be the 
murdered man Deane, told her, or wanted to tell her. 
He would know.” 

Mellapont glanced at Shelmore and shook his 
head. 

“Worse and worse!” he muttered. “I’m afraid 
there’s going to be some illumination of all this 


COIL WITHIN COIL 


275 


that’ll be a bit—dazzling, eh? Mr. Palsford, you’ll 
be staying at the Chancellor? Yes, well, don’t say 
a word of all this to the young lady you’ll no doubt 
see there—Miss Pretty. Mr. Shelmore—I suppose 
that clerk of yours went off? All right—let me have 
another consultation this evening. I may—I hope to 
have more information by then.” 

“Where are you going to get it?” asked Shelmore. 

“I’m going to find Bartlett and get it out of him,” 
answered Mellapont, with a grim look. “Bartlett, 
I’m certain, knows a lot! Let me convince him that 
it’s in his interest to keep in with me—and Bartlett 
will talk. Take Mr. Palsford away, Mr. Shelmore, 
and post him up in every detail of the story as far 
as we know it. Then, to-night, eh? In the multi¬ 
tude of counsellors . . .” 


CHAPTER XXI 


Bartlett's hearthrug 

^^HILE Mellapont, Shelmore, and the north- 
country Solicitor were discussing matters in 
the Superintendent's private office at Southernstowe 
police-station, Bartlett, all unconscious that he was 
one of the subjects of their debate, was comfortably 
eating his dinner at Portsmouth. He had gone back 
there with his thousand pounds in his pocket and 
with the highly satisfactory knowledge that from 
that time forward John Hackdale would send him 
five pounds every Friday evening. He lodged the 
thousand pounds in his bank and had a little talk 
with the bank manager about investing his capital, 
now two thousand. But it was only a preliminary 
talk—there was no hurry, said Bartlett: he 
would consider matters and study the market lists 
in Stocks and Shares. He went to his lodgings 
and ordered his dinner—an unusually good one, and 
when it was served to him he ate it with the appetite 
276 


BARTLETT’S HEARTHRUG 277 

of a man who feels that he has thoroughly deserved 
the good things of life. 

Dinner over, he mixed his mid-day allowance of 
rum, lighted his pipe, took up the newspaper, and 
got into his easy chair before the fire. Life, said 
Bartlett to himself, was henceforth going to be 
very pleasant, blissfully comfortable. These were 
good lodgings; the landlady was capable and 
obliging; the situation quiet and respectable. He 
had a vision of an orderly and placid existence— 
as one day was, so should the next be. He would 
breakfast leisurely, dawdling over his eggs and 
bacon and the morning paper. Later, he would take 
his constitutional; it would end at his favourite 
house of call; there he would have a glass or two 
and exchange political speculations with his fellow- 
habitues of the bar-parlour. He would go home tr 
dinner at one o’clock and dine well. He would have 
a nap before the fire; he would wake to a dish of 
tea. The evening would find him at the favourite 
tavern again: there was good company there of an 
evening and as good talk as you would find any¬ 
where. At half-past nine he would go home to a 
hot supper—yes, it must be hot, every night—and 
then, after a night-cap of his habitual beverage— 
the best old Jamaica—would come bed. An ideal 
existence for Bartlett. 


278 


THE SAFETY PIN 


He dropped asleep over these day-dreams and the 
newspaper, and slept soundly in his padded chair. 
And suddenly he awoke to hear a voice—the land¬ 
lady’s voice—which seemed at first far off and then 
unpleasantly near. 

“Mr. Barton—Mr. Barton—there’s a gentleman 
to see you!” 

Bartlett turned confusedly, unable to remember 
that to his landlady and his new-found world he was 
Barton and not Bartlett. Before he realised this he 
was aware of something more pertinent—his caller, 
already in the room, was Mellapont. And somehow 
or other, Mellapont, in mufti, and looking like a 
highly respectable gentleman, a retired Army officer 
or something of that sort, seemed more formidable 
than Mellapont in his dark blue black-braided uni¬ 
form. But Bartlett’s wits rose to the occasion and 
he put a good face on things. 

“Oh, how do you do, Sir!” he exclaimed, rising 
hurriedly from his chair. “An unexpected pleasure, 
Sir, I’m sure. A little refreshment after your jour¬ 
ney, Mr. Mellapont. I’ve a drop of very good 
whiskey in the sideboard, Sir—Mrs. Capper, a clean 
glass or two if you please.” 

“Well, I’ve no objection, thank you,” answered 
Mellapont. He came forward as the landlady left 
the room and gave Bartlett a meaning look. “All 


BARTLETT’S HEARTHRUG 


279 


right, my lad!” he murmured. “Just want a bit of 
a talk with you—that’s all. Nice situation you’ve 
got here, and very comfortable rooms, eh?” he went 
on as the landlady returned with a couple of glasses 
and a syphon of soda-water. “Make yourself at 
home here, no doubt!” 

“Oh, we’re quite at home here, Sir—ain’t we, 
Mrs. Capper?” responded Bartlett, with a jovial air. 
“Oh, yes—allow me to help you, Sir,” he continued, 
bustling about. “Excellent whiskey this, I’m told, 
Mr. Mellapont—never touch it myself. I’ll take a 
little rum with you.” He handed a glass over to 
the visitor and gave himself a rather larger allow¬ 
ance of his own spirit than usual. “My respects, 
Mr. Mellapont.” Then, as the landlady having left 
them and closed the door, he turned sharply. 
“Nothing wrong, I hope, Sir?” 

Mellapont took his glass, nodded over its brim, 
remarked that the contents were good, old, sound, 
and relapsed into a chair, waving his host back into 
the one he had just vacated. 

“There’s a great deal wrong, Bartlett!” he said. 
“And I’ve come to you because I’m certain you know 
things. You can help to clear up. Now I’ll tell you 
straight out. I know a good lot—about you. 
You’ve been behind the scenes in this murder affair 
at Southernstowe—it’s no use denying it, Bartlett.” 


28 o 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Bartlett’s nerves, shaken by Mellapont’s sudden 
descent upon his retreat, were tightening again under 
the stimulus of the rum. He began to grow 
wary. 

“I may have seen a bit, known a bit, Mr. Mella- 
pont,” he said. “The watch, for instance-” 

“You can leave all that out,” interrupted Mella- 
pont. “That part of it’s cleared. There’s no doubt 
we got at the truth of that in Shelmore’s statement 
before the magistrate. Kight and the chamber¬ 
maid got Deane’s jewellery under the circumstances 
they confessed to, and in due course they’ll be tried, 
convicted and sentenced. But—they’d nothing to do 
with the murder. Now Bartlett, I’ll put it straight 
to you—have you any idea whatever, any suspicions 
as to who had?” 

“Suspicion’s neither here nor there, Mr. Mella- 
pont,” answered Bartlett. “You might suspect a 
dozen people—without cause. I don’t know who 
murdered that man!—I’ve no idea whatever.” 

“Very well!” said Mellapont. “Then I’m going 
to ask you something—after telling you something. 
And the last first. The other night, Bartlett, you 
and John Hackdale went together to Mrs. Cham- 
pernowne’s house, Ashenhurst. You were admitted. 
You waited in a small room off the hall while John 
Hackdale went to see Mrs. Champernowne in her 



BARTLETT’S HEARTHRUG 


281 


drawing-room. He fetched you to her—after a 
while. Mrs. Champernowne talked to both of you. 
Eventually she wrote out a cheque, which she handed 
to John Hackdale. He and you then left. But 

ft 

Mellapont paused, purposely. He was watching 
his man with keen, searching eyes. He saw that his 
first words astonished Bartlett, but he also saw that 
after the opening stage of astonishment had passed 
it was followed by an expression of almost smug 
and confident assurance: it was as if Bartlett were 
saying to himself, “Yes, he may know that much, 
but that’s all, and that all’s nothing!” And he went 
on, watching his listener still more closely. 

“But there’s more,” he said. “Next morning 
Hackdale cashed that cheque at Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s bank in Southernstowe. It was for a thou¬ 
sand pounds, and he took the money in notes. And 
you, Bartlett, have just paid a thousand pounds into 
a banking account that you’ve started here in Ports¬ 
mouth, in the name you’re now living under— 
Barton. You paid it in the identical notes which 
Hackdale received at the Southernstowe bank—I 
have the numbers in my pocket-book. Now, Bart¬ 
lett, my question—be careful, and think about your 
answer! Why did Mrs. Champernowne pay you a 
thousand pounds?” 


282 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Bartlett was astonished enough, and in a bad way, 
by that time. His hand shook as he set down his 
glass. 

“We—we all have business, private business, of 
our own, Mr. Mellapont,” he faltered. “I don’t see 

_> j 

“Don’t fence with it, Bartlett!” interrupted Mel¬ 
lapont. “You’d no business with Mrs. Champer- 
nowne! If you had business with her it wouldn’t 
have been done in a hole-and-corner fashion. Now 
come—I’ve approached you in friendly fashion— 
be reasonable and let’s get at the truth, it’ll pay you 
in the long run. Far better keep in with the law, 
and with us, the police, than turn to crooked ways, 
Bartlett! Now, honestly, wasn’t that thousand 
pounds given you as hush-money?” 

“I would like a definition of that term, Mr. Mel¬ 
lapont,” said Bartlett. “Your definition!” 

“Money paid to prevent exposure,” answered Mel¬ 
lapont, brusquely. “You know!” 

“I don’t know that I could expose anybody,” re¬ 
torted Bartlett. “I couldn’t!” 

“Then you tell me what the money was paid for,” 
said Mellapont. “If for a genuine business deal of 
which you’re not ashamed, tell me in confidence— 
it’ll go no further.” 

“I’ve no permission to do that, Mr. Mellapont,” 



BARTLETT’S HEARTHRUG 283 


replied Bartlett. “There’s always two parties to a 
transaction. Supposing I am one in this case, 
there’s still another. If I’m willing to tell you, per¬ 
haps the other party isn’t.” 

Mellapont leaned forward across the hearthrug. 

“Look here, Bartlett!” he said earnestly. “Let 
me tell you something. You’re in a very risky 
position; a very dangerous position. I’m not afraid 
of being candid with you, and I’ll just tell you how 
things stand. You know that Deane was found 
murdered, shot by a revolver, in a sand-pit just be- 
behind Mrs. Champernowne’s house and grounds. 
Now I’ll tell you of certain facts—facts!—that are 
in our possession. Deane was with Mrs. Champer- 
nowne in her grounds that night—he was seen 
talking to her. The revolver with which he was 
probably shot has been found in Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne’s orchard. Mrs. Champernowne holds a police 
certificate for a revolver—this revolver so found may 
be hers. There’s a prima facie case of grave suspicion 
against Mrs. Champernowne, for according to evi¬ 
dence put into my hands this very morning she’d 
good reason for wishing to rid herself of, or to 
silence, the murdered man. Now Bartlett, you listen 
to me!—more carefully than ever. If Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne is arrested on this charge, and if she’s found 
guilty, and if it’s found that she gave you hush- 


284 


THE SAFETY PIN 


money to keep you quiet about something you know, 
you’ll let yourself in for—do you know what, Bart¬ 
lett?” 

Bartlett was listening more carefully than ever, 
and he was conscious that Mellapont was grad¬ 
ually scoring points against him in this verbal 
encounter. But he still strove to affect a polite 
indifference. 

“Can’t say that I do, Sir,” he answered. “I’m 
not a lawyer, you know, Mr. Mellapont.” 

“No doubt!” agreed Mellapont. “But that plea 
wouldn’t stand you in any stead. Every English¬ 
man is supposed to know the law, and he can’t plead 
ignorance as a defence. Bartlett!—do you know 
what an accessory is?” 

“Not in legal parlance, Sir, not in legal parlance!” 
said Bartlett. 

“Then I’ll tell you!” continued Mellapont. “An 
accessory is one who, though not the principal in a 
felony, and even absent at the time of its committal, 
has nevertheless been concerned with the crime, 
either before or after the fact. After!—mind that, 
Bartlett—after, as well as before. Now what is it 
to be an accessory after the fact? It’s to be one 
who knowing that a felony has been committed, as¬ 
sists, relieves, or protects the felon. Just get that 
into your head!” 


BARTLETT’S HEARTHRUG 285 


“I don’t know of any felony having been com¬ 
mitted,” said Bartlett. “And I’ve neither assisted, 
relieved, or protected anybody!” 

“Not by silence?” asked Mellapont, sharply. 
“Come!—why did Mrs. Champernowne give you a 
thousand pounds? Bartlett!—you’d better be care¬ 
ful ! Think again!” 

Bartlett thought—for a good five minutes. 

“Do you really mean,” he said at last, “do you 
really mean—no bluff, Mr. Mellapont, if you please! 
—that if Mrs. Champernowne were found guilty of 
this, and it was discovered that I knew—well, just 
something—some little thing—I should be liable to 
—what you’re talking about ?” 

“I do!” answered Mellapont. “Most certainly! 
If you know anything—anything, however small— 
against her, and conceal it from us, you’re assisting 
and protecting her. That’s so!” 

“You think things will come out against her?” 
asked Bartlett, uneasily. 

“From certain facts put before me this very day 
—yes!” replied Mellapont. 

Once more Bartlett assumed his thinking cap. 
After all, if Mrs. Champernowne were convicted, 
which now seemed likely, his weekly stipend would 
come to an end. On the other hand if he told Mel¬ 
lapont what he knew, his information would qualify 


286 


THE SAFETY PIN 


him for the reward offered by Miss Pretty—and a 
bird in the hand . . . 

“Mr. Mellapont!” he said suddenly. “If I tell you 
all I do know—all!—will it be confidential?” 

“As far as justice will allow, yes,” answered Mel¬ 
lapont. “Certainly!” 

“I don’t know that my name need be brought in,” 
remarked Bartlett. “But another thing—if I do tell 
you, will you back me up in putting in for that 
second reward of the young lady’s—Miss Pretty’s? 
She offered a thousand pounds to anybody who saw 
and spoke to Deane on the night of the murder.” 

“Don’t mind doing that,” said Mellapont. “I’d 
as soon see you have Miss Pretty’s money as any¬ 
body else—she’s a bit of a fool, in my opinion. 
Why, Bartlett, did you see and speak to him?” 

“I did!” answered Bartlett, readily enough at last. 
“I did, Sir!—and that’s literally all I know. He met 
me near North Bar just about midnight and asked 
me to tell him where Ashenhurst House, Mrs. 
Champernowne’s residence, was. I told him. He 
went in that direction. Two nights later, I heard 
of the murder, and knew that the dead man must 
be the man who’d stopped me—the description tal¬ 
lied. Just after I’d heard, I met John Hackdale, 
on his beat as special constable. I told him what 
I’ve told you. He begged me to keep my mouth 


BARTLETT’S HEARTHRUG 287 


shut, and gave me—I should say all the money he 
had in his pocket. Next day—-night—he came to 
me with a hundred and fifty pounds and told me that 
if I’d go to America with it and stop there he’d 
cable me the same amount as soon as he heard that 
I’d landed in New York. I promised. He’d no 
sooner gone than I heard of Miss Pretty’s offer of 
a reward. That roused me. Instead of going to 
Southampton, I came here and waited and watched 
the papers. Mere chance gave me that opportunity 
as regards the watch and those two people from the 
Chancellor—Right and Sanders. I got the reward 
from Miss Pretty for that—the thousand offered 
about the jewellery. When I went to Southernstowe 
about that affair, John Hackdale saw me and was 
taken aback because I hadn’t gone to America. He 
took me to Mrs. Champernowne’s house—I saw her, 
with him, as you say. But she never mentioned 
anything to me, Mr. Mellapont—I mean as regards 
why I was to keep my mouth shut. All she did was 
to give me—through Hackdale—that thousand 
pounds and the promise of a weekly pension. And 
that’s all—all!” 

Mellapont was thinking—thinking hard. His 
thoughts were chiefly on John Hackdale. He re¬ 
membered that the sand-pit and its surroundings 
were in John Hackdale’s beat; that it was John 


288 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Hackdale who found the dead man; that John 
Hackdale had concealed the fact that he knew a man, 
Bartlett, who had met and spoken with Deane; 
altogether, it was obvious, John Hackdale had played 
a double game. And then he suddenly remembered, 
too, that John Hackdale held a police-certificate for 
a revolver. Altogether . . . 

“Um!” he said, waking out of his reverie. “So 
—it was John Hackdale who acted as principal in 
all this, Bartlett, until that last interview, eh? And 
that’s really all you know—all ?” 

“All, Mr. Mellapont!” protested Bartlett 
“Doesn’t seem much, does it ?” 

“Um!” murmured Mellapont. “That remains to 
be seen.” He pulled out his watch. “I must get to 
the station and back to Southernstowe,” he said. 
“Walk with me—I want to ask you a few more 
questions.” 

Bartlett went with him. Simmons Hackdale, 
lounging around, saw them together. He saw them 
part at the entrance to the station. And once Super¬ 
intendent Mellapont had taken a seat in the next 
train for Southernstowe, Simmons also took one— 
further back. It seemed to him that an astute 
general like himself should be on the battle-field; in 
the thick of things. 


CHAPTER XXII 

CHECKMATE 

y^LL unconscious that Simmons Hackdale was on 
the same train and only a few yards away 
along its corridor, Mellapont went back to Southern- 
stowe, plunged in thought. He had an instinctive 
feeling that Bartlett had told him the truth and re¬ 
vealed all that he knew. What did it come to ? In 
Mellapont’s opinion, to this—that if there were any 
people who knew more about the sand-pit murder 
than anybody else these people were Mrs. Champer- 
nowne and John Hackdale. Obviously John Hack- 
dale was hand-in-glove with his employer in the 
effort to silence Bartlett. 

Bartlett seemed to incline to the opinion that John 
Hackdale was merely a go-between; a medium be¬ 
tween Mrs. Champernowne and himself. But Mel¬ 
lapont felt by no means sure of that. It seemed to 
him that he had grounds for suspicion that Mrs. 
Champernowne and John Hackdale shared a darker 


280 


290 


THE SAFETY PIN 


secret. There was a fact within his knowledge 
which obtruded itself again and again. Ashenhurst 
House, its grounds, the adjacent lanes, and the dis¬ 
used, grown-over sand-pit were all within John 
Hackdale’s beat as special constable. What more 
likely than that he was around that part on the night 
of the murder and became privy to its commission— 
by Mrs. Champernowne, who certainly possessed a 
revolver, and, in Mellapont’s opinion, was just the 
sort of woman to use it effectively? It might be, 
and, undeniably, it would be in John Hackdale’s 
interest to shield the woman upon whom his living 
depended and who had it in her power to advance his 
interests. 

The more Mellapont thought of this, the more 
he was convinced that he was on the right track— 
that Mrs. Champernowne murdered Deane, for rea¬ 
sons of her own, and that John Hackdale knew it. 
He saw how it could be done. She might be looking 
round her own grounds and out-houses with the re¬ 
volver in her pocket (he had already ascertained 
from one of his subordinates that the reason Mrs. 
Champernowne gave in applying for permission to 
keep a revolver was that her house lay in a lonely 
situation and that tramps had a trick of getting into 
her sheds and conservatories) when she met Deane. 
She might easily lure Deane away into the sand-pit 


CHECKMATE 


291 


and shoot him, trusting that suspicion would fall on 
the rag-tag and bobtail always left behind in the 
town on fair-day. And John Hackdale might be 
close at hand, and hear the shot and go up to the 
place from whence the sound came, and find—Mrs. 
Champernowne. Possible—all of it!—and in Mel- 
lapont’s opinion, John Hackdale was just the sort 
of man likely to enter into a conspiracy of 
silence. 

Anyway, now that he knew all that he did know, 
both John Hackdale and Mrs. Champernowne had 
got to be seen—and talked to. Hackdale first, cer¬ 
tainly, and alone: there were questions; all important 
questions, they must be put at once. And then— 
the woman. Mayor or not, wealthy or not* Mrs. 
Champernowne would have to go through it. 

It was dark when Mellapont reached Southern- 
stowe. Looking neither to right nor left, he went 
quickly away to the police-station and sought out 
Nicholson, one of his plain-clothes men. After a 
few words, he took Nicholson away with him, and 
went straight to the house in which Hackdale lodged. 
Leaving Nicholson outside, in a corner of the square 
from which he could see without being seen, Mella¬ 
pont knocked at the door, asked for Mr. John Hack- 
dale, and on learning that he was in, went, 
unannounced, to the brothers’ private sitting-room. 




292 


THE SAFETY PIN 


John sat there alone, over the tea-table. He had a 
cup of tea in one hand, and a newspaper in the 
other; he set down both as the superintendent strode 
in, and Mellapont was quick to notice that his hand 
shook and his face paled. 

Mellapont closed the door, turned, and slipped 
into a chair close by Hackdale’s—all in silence. He 
looked keenly at the man he had come to see. 

“Hackdale!” he said in a low voice. ‘Tve come 
to see you on serious and important business! I 
won’t beat about the bush. I’ll put my cards on the 
table. I’ve just come from seeing James Bartlett at 
his lodgings at Portsmouth. I may as well tell you 
—Bartlett made a clean breast to me! Of every¬ 
thing! Now then, Hackdale, why have you and 
Mrs. Champernowne been paying Bartlett hush- 
money to keep him from telling that Deane stopped 
him, on the night of the murder, to ask his way to 
Ashenhurst House? Why?” 

Hackdale was pale enough now, and his colour 
showed no sign of returning. He was struck all of 
a heap—and Mellapont saw it. 

“Take your time, Hackdale,” he said, not un¬ 
kindly. “That’s hit you!—but you can’t be surprised. 
Men like Bartlett are never to be counted on. But I’m 
sure he’s told me the truth, now, and—you’d best 
do the same. Why did you square him, from the 


CHECKMATE 


293 


first? Think! First, you gave him all the ready 
money you had on you; then, a hundred and fifty 
pounds if he’d go to America, with the promise of a 
similar amount as soon as you knew he’d arrived; 
then, when he didn’t go, a thousand! Looks bad, 
Hackdale—very bad! Now—what do you say 
about it ?” 

Hackdale knew by that time that Bartlett had 
split. He was astonished, amazed, stupefied. And 
he could only stammer. 

“I—I—” he began. “You see—you see, Mel- 
lapont—Mrs. Champernowne-” 

“Well?” demanded Mellapont, sharply. “Mrs. 
Champernowne—” 

“Her name—of course—to be kept out of it,” 
stammered Hackdale. 

“Why?” asked Mellapont. “Do you know?” 

“Upon my honour I don’t!” protested Hackdale. 
“I—I know no more than—than Bartlett knows. 
No more than that—that Deane met him and asked 
his way, and that—that—” He checked himself, re¬ 
membering the episode of the safety pin. But no 
one; no, not even Mellapont, he decided, could find 
out about that. “I—I don’t know anything!” he 
concluded lamely. 

“You don’t know who shot Deane?” demanded 
Mellapont. 



294 THE SAFETY PIN 

“Before God, no!” exclaimed Hackdale. “I do 
not!” 

“And you mean to tell me that Mrs. Champer- 
nowne was willing to pay all that money—a thousand 
cash down, and a pension for life—to Bartlett just 
to keep him, from telling that he’d met a man in 
North Bar?” asked Mellapont. “What reason had 
she ?” 

“I don’t know,” protested Hackdale. “She has, 
anyway. Her affair!” 

Mellapont sat silently regarding Hackdale for a 
minute or two. 

“It’s well known in the town, Hackdale, that the 
very day after the murder was discovered you were 
advanced to a very superior post at Champer- 
nowne’s,” he said at last. “Now, had that any¬ 
thing to do with this ? Were you squared as Bartlett 
was squared?” 

Hackdale was recovering himself a little. He 
shook his head. 

“I—I deserved any advancement that my principal 
could give me, Superintendent,” he answered, not 
without some dignity. “I’d expected it! My pro¬ 
motion was the result of my long and faithful ser¬ 
vice.” 

Mellapont rose from his chair. 

“You hold a police-certificate for a revolver, 


CHECKMATE 295 

Hackdale,” he said in precise, official tones. “Show 
me the revolver!” 

Hackdale stared, reddened, looked annoyed, but 
rose instantly. He turned towards a door. 

“Certainly!” he answered. “It’s in a drawer in 
my bedroom there—I’ll fetch it.” 

“No—I’ll come with you,” said Mellapont. 

Hackdale stared at him again. But he opened the 
door, switched on the electric light, and followed 
closely by Mellapont, walked across to a chest of 
drawers and drew one out. He slipped his hand 
under a neatly-folded stack of linen—to withdraw it 
with a sharp exclamation. 

“Not there!” he said. “I—I’m dead certain I 
put it there—that’s—where I’ve always kept it. 
Who-” 

He began to search and rummage, pulling out 
drawer after drawer, and turning the contents here 
and there in his haste and agitation, while Mella¬ 
pont, coldly silent stood by and watched. But no 
revolver came to light, and its owner turned a white, 
astonished face on the watcher. 

“It’s—it’s gone,” he said. “It was there, not so 
long since—a month. Simmons must have---” 

Mellapont turned to the door. 

“You’d better think things over, in the light of 
what I’ve told you,” he said severely. “You’ll prob- 




296 


THE SAFETY PIN 


ably think of more you can say to me, and if and 
when you do, you know where to find me.” 

With that he left the room and the house, and 
went across to the shadow amongst which his man 
lurked. 

“He’s in there, Nicholson,” he whispered. “If 
he goes out, follow him. Keep an eye on him all 
through, until you hear from me. You know what 
to do if there’s anything to report.” 

The plain-clothes man nodded, and Mellapont, 
leaving him walked rapidly to Shelmore’s private 
house, a little distance away. Learning there that 
Shelmore was dining with Mr. Palsford at the 
Chancellor Hotel, he went there, and walking un¬ 
announced into the coffee-room, found the two 
Solicitors just finishing dinner. Within a few 
minutes he had whispered to them an outline of 
all that he had learnt since seeing them at noon. 

“What next?” asked Shelmore. 

“Mrs. Champernowne,” said Mellapont, with de¬ 
cision. “I want you both to go up there with me 
—now. It’s only ten minutes’ walk. When you’re 
ready-” 

The three men presently walked up the streets 
towards Ashenhurst House—in silence. No one 
spoke, indeed, until they were at Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s door. Then Palsford whispered. 



CHECKMATE 


297 

“Over twenty years since she saw me, you know! 
Will she-” 

“I’m thinking of that,” said Mellapont. “Leave 
it to me.” 

Jane Pratt opened the door and at sight of Shel- 
more seemed inclined to start and to exclaim. But 
Mellapont was quickly at her side and whispering 
to her, and within a moment she had shown all 
three into an adjoining room and left them. Mella¬ 
pont nodded at his companions. 

“I told her to give my name only,” he said. 
“Mr. Palsford, stand there, in full view of the door! 
I want Mrs. Champernowne to see you first——” 

The door opened before he could say more; Mrs. 
Champernowne was already there. And she saw 
Palsford first, and except for a slight increase in 
colour, showed no particular interest in his presence. 
Her gaze swept Shelmore and Mellapont and settled 
on the Superintendent with anything but pleasure. 

“Well?” she demanded with some asperity. 
“What is this, Mellapont? Why do you-” 

“Business of the highest importance, Mrs. Cham¬ 
pernowne,” interrupted Mellapont. “Grave busi¬ 
ness to which I must ask your attention. But first 
—I think you knew this gentleman when you lived 
as Mrs. Arradeane, at Normansholt, some twenty- 
odd years ago ?” 





298 


THE SAFETY PIN 


Mrs. Champernowne gave Pals ford another look. 
But she made no response to his bow; instead, 
passing all three men, she seated herself at the head 
of a centre table, and pointed to chairs. 

“Now, Mellapont,” she said, “what do you 
want ? Drop your mysteries, and come to the 
point.” 

“Willingly!” answered Mellapont, as he took a 
chair facing the table. “Nothing will be more 
agreeable to me, Mrs. Champernowne. And it’ll 
save time if I do go straight to the point. I may 
as well tell you that James Bartlett has admitted to 
me this afternoon that you have been paying him 
hush-money to keep his tongue quiet about a curious 
fact. Now, why, Mrs. Champernowne?” 

Mrs. Champernowne gave him a hard look. 

“My business!” she answered. 

“Police business, if you please, Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne,” retorted Mellapont. “Don’t let us get at 
cross-purposes. I know more than you think. John 
Hackdale has also made some confessions. Mr. 
Palsford there has posted me up as regards your life 
at Normansholt, your husband’s disappearance and 
so on. Now, Mrs. Champernowne, let me be frank. 
We’ll call the man who came to the Chancellor 
Hotel, and who was murdered in the sand-pit be¬ 
hind your grounds, what he called himself, James 


CHECKMATE 


299 


Deane, though we believe that he was James Arra- 
deane, your husband’s first cousin. James Deane 
left the Chancellor late at night and went out. He 
asked his way to your house, mentioning you by 
name. Later, he was seen in your grounds, in 
company with you—you may show surprise at that, 
but I have the proof. He never returned to the 
Chancellor, and he was found dead, murdered, 
forty-eight hours later. Then you begin to square 
people to say nothing—you certainly squared Bart¬ 
lett, and I have a strong suspicion that you squared 
John Hackdale. Things look very black, Mrs. 
Champernowne, and I think you ought to speak: 
I ask you to speak! Why not speak and let us get 
at the truth? Come, now, Mrs. Champernowne, 
you, as a magistrate, know-” 

“And supposing I won’t?” asked Mrs. Champer¬ 
nowne. 

Mellapont threw out his hands. 

“Think of my position!” he said. “All this in¬ 
formation before me! What does it look like, Mrs. 
Champernowne ? What would anybody say ? Here 
are two legal gentlemen!—I’m sure, if you asked 
their advice——” 

But Mrs. Champernowne showed no intention of 
turning to either Shelmore or Palsford. She kept 
looking from the rings on her fingers, which she 




3 °° 


THE SAFETY PIN 


was turning over mechanically, to her questioner: 
from him to the rings. There was a silence . . . 
broken abruptly at last. 

“Well!” she said. “The man certainly was the 
other James Arradeane—the cousin! He did come 
here—I did talk to him, in the grounds. He had 
a reason for coming here. He’d seen and recog¬ 
nised me at the Picture-House.” 

“What was his reason, Mrs. Champernowne ?” 
asked Mellapont quietly. 

“He’d heard that I was to be married—to Sir 
Reville Childerstone. He—he wanted to tell me, 
in case I didn’t know it, that the other James 
Arradeane, to whom I was once married, and 
who ran away from me at Normansholt, was 
dead.” 

Mellapont turned to Pals ford. Palsford was 
staring at Mrs. Champernowne. 

“Dead?” he exclaimed. “When?—where?” 

“At Melbourne, in Australia, three months ago,” 
replied Mrs. Champernowne. “He gave me the 
proof—a cablegram. I have it—safely put away. 
That was all—when he’d told me that, he went 
away, out of the grounds. I never saw him again 
—I don’t know where he went. I don’t know who 
killed him. I’m quite sure that John Hackdale 
doesn’t know either. That’s all I know.” 


CHECKMATE 301 

The three men looked at each other, wonder- 
ingly. 

“But if that’s all, Mrs. Champernowne,” asked 
Mellapont, “why all this extraordinary precaution 
to ensure silence from—a man like Bartlett!’’ 

Mrs. Champernowne gave him a queer look. 

“My business!” she said for the second time. 
“I have reasons for not wishing the past to be gone 
into—good reasons. My own reasons!” 

“Because of your marriage with Sir Reville?” 
suggested Mellapont. 

“Sir Reville Childerstone has known everything 
from the beginning,” said Mrs. Champernowne 
quietly. “And now you know all that I can tell 
you. I don’t know anything whatever about an}^- 
thing that happened to James Arradeane after he 
walked out of my gate!” 

Presently Mellapont and his companions went 
away from Ashenhurst House. They had passed 
North Bar before anyone spoke. 

“That’s a sort of checkmate!” said Mellapont at 
last. “I don’t know what I think. However, there’s 
no use in giving up, and I’ve more to do to-night. 
I want to ask some questions of Miss Pretty. Come 
with me, you gentlemen.” 

The chamber-maid who was Jane Pratt’s friend 
led all three to the door of Miss Pretty’s sitting- 


302 


THE SAFETY PIN 


room and with no more announcing than a prelim¬ 
inary tap, threw it open. There, seated side by side 
on a sofa before the fire, were Miss Pretty and— 
Simmons. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


mellapont's exhibit 

the four men in that room the quickest to 
grasp the situation was Simmons. He saw 
at once what had happened during his absence. 
Pals ford had not only gone to Shelmore about Sir 
Reville Childerstone’s business but had told him all 
about the Arradeane mystery at Normansholt, and 
had probably seen Mrs. Champernowne and recog¬ 
nised her as the Mrs. Arradeane he had known in 
his own town. And Shelmore had taken him to 
the police—and here was Mellapont with both of 
them, obviously wanting Miss Pretty. Why? 
Clearly, he must act, and act quickly, if he wanted 
to be first. 

But Shelmore was already speaking. He and 
Mellapont had exchanged glances at sight of Sim¬ 
mons : Shelmore hastened to translate the meaning 
of those glances into words. 

“What are you doing here, Hackdale?” he de- 
303 


304 


THE SAFETY PIN 


manded sharply. “You ought to be in Dorset¬ 
shire ! What—” 

“Missed the noon train/’ answered Simmons, 
readily and with some show of defiance. “Had 
to wait till night for another. And hanging about, 
I happened to see Superintendent Mellapont there, 
with Mr. Bartlett. I knew what that meant—and 
I came back!” 

“Why?” asked Shelmore, still more sharply. 

“To safeguard my own interests!” retorted Sim¬ 
mons. “And Miss Pretty’s.” 

He turned to Miss Pretty as he spoke, and Miss 
Pretty, who seemed anything but pleased at the 
unceremonious invasion of her privacy, blushed a 
little. 

“Mr. Hackdale has been very persevering in pur¬ 
suit of my interests,” she murmured. “He’s worked 
very hard—” 

“He’ll be consulting his own if he comes away 
for a little talk with me!” interrupted Mellapont, 
eyeing Simmons significantly. “You’d better come 
my lad—now.” 

“As I please!” answered Simmons. “Not at your 
bidding, Mellapont! You’ve no charge against 
me. And you’ve no right to walk into this 
lady’s parlour, unannounced, either—you, or any of 
you!” 


MELLAPONTS EXHIBIT 


305 


“I shall speak to the maid—and the landlord— 
about that!” murmured Miss Pretty. “Very rude, 
I think.” 

Mellapont glanced at Shelmore. Then, taking 
a step forward, he touched Simmons on the shoul¬ 
der and motioned him into a corner of the room. 
Simmons went—and the others, watching, saw the 
Superintendent bend and whisper a few words in 
his ear. What they were, none of them knew—but 
Simmons started, flushed, looked angrier than ever, 
and, as Mellapont added another whispered com¬ 
munication, grew sullen of countenance. 

“Well—where, then?” he growled. “Not here, 
anyway! Nor at your place!” 

Mellapont turned to Shelmore. 

“Suppose we go across to your office?” he sug¬ 
gested. Then, as Shelmore nodded, he looked at 
Miss Pretty. “I have two or three questions to 
ask you, Miss Pretty,” he added. “I’ll look in later. 
And as to being unceremonious, or rude—when 
murder’s abroad even policemen may be allowed a 
little licence. Now, Hackdale!” 

Simmons muttered something to Miss Pretty 
about returning speedily, but he went away readily 
enough, and with a semblance of meekness. The 
fact was Mellapont in that whispered communica¬ 
tion, had told him that Jane Pratt had given him 


3°6 


THE SAFETY PIN 


away—unreservedly. That had knocked out the 
foundations of Simmons’ elaborate structure, and 
he was now eager to know if he could do anything 
to prop up the walls before they came tumbling 
about his ears. He preceded the other three across 
the street, unlocked the office-door with his private 
key, and turned on the lights in his own and his 
employer’s room—all as if he were performing an 
agreeable duty. 

The four men seated themselves around Shel- 
more’s desk, and Mellapont turned on the clerk 
with a judicial air. 

“Now look here, Hack dale,” he began, “you’ve 
been playing a nice game, all to yourself, for the 
purpose, of course, of getting the reward which 
that rather foolish young lady across there offered. 
But when you come to affairs with young ladies, 
you should remember that there’s a wise old saw 
which tells you that it’s well to be off with the old 
love before you are on with the new! Jane Pratt 
heard on Sunday night about your philandering 
with Miss Pretty in the wood on Sunday afternoon 
—oh, yes, she heard, my lad, for you were watched! 
—and Jane Pratt’s a jealous young woman. She 
gave you clean away to Mr. Shelmore last night— 
and now we know everything. Yes—even to the 
finding of the revolver in Mrs. Champernowne’s 


MELLAPONT’S EXHIBIT 


307 

orchard. You’d better make a, clean breast, Hack- 
dale.” 

“Not to you!” said Simmons. 

He had listened closely to Mellapont, and his 
spirits had risen in consequence. If they only knew 
all that Jane Pratt could tell, he cared little. His 
chief concern now was with Miss Pretty. He 
could get round her. And, with a slight laugh, he 
repeated his defiance, adding a word or two. 

“Unless I like!” 

“I think you will like,” remarked, Mellapont, 
quietly. “You’ll run a big risk if you don’t!” 

“What with?” asked Simmons, with a sneer. 
“Do you think I’m a fool? You’ve nothing against 
me! It’s at my own pleasure that I’m here, and 
I can snap my fingers at all of you and walk out 
of that door this minute if I choose!” 

He rose from his chair and moved towards the 
door as if to make good his threat, staring im¬ 
pudently at the Superintendent. Mellapont nodded. 

“Do so, my lad!” he said. “Do so—and you’ll 
walk into a cell at the police station within five 
minutes! Do you hear that?” 

Simmons stopped—staring again, but with a dif¬ 
ferent expression. 

“What d’you mean?” he demanded. 

“I mean that I suspect your brother John of 


3°8 


THE SAFETY PIN 


being concerned in the murder of James Deane, 
and you of being an accessory after the fact!” 
answered Mellapont. “Now my lad—how does that 
strike you? And you sit down again in that chair, 
and answer my questions or IT 1 arrest you now!” 

Simmons had turned unpleasantly pale, and his 
close-set eyes began to twinkle curiously. But he 
tried to smile. 

“That’s all damned rot, Mellapont!” he began, 
with an attempt to bluster. “You know—” 

“I know that the revolver you picked up last 
night is your brother’s, my lad, and that you’re 
aware of it,” said Mellapont. “Now then, sit you 
down, and answer what I ask, or else—” 

Simmons re-seated himself, on the edge of his 
chair, thrust his hands in his pockets, and became 
sullen. 

“I’m not going to say or do anything that’ll do 
me out of that reward!” he muttered. “I’ve worked 
hard for that, and—” 

“If Miss Pretty’s ass enough to fling her money 
broadcast into your hand, young fellow, you’re wel¬ 
come to it for all I care, privately or officially,” 
said Mellapont. “I don’t care what you tell Miss 
Pretty, or how you bamboozle her—you seem to 
have got round her pretty well, already! What I 
want is information that you can give. You may 


MELLAPONT’S EXHIBIT 


309 


save your own brother by it, though from what 
I’ve seen and learnt of you, you don’t seem to care 
much about that.” 

“Every man for himself!” growled Simmons. 
“I’ve myself to think about.” 

“Then you’d better think about yourself now,” 
said Mellapont, “and save yourself from unpleasant¬ 
ness. Now, you answer my questions. Did Jane 
Pratt tell you that on the night of the murder she 
saw a stranger in the grounds of Ashenhurst House 
with Mrs. Champernowne ?” 

“She did—certainly,” replied Simmons. 

“Did she tell you that your brother and Bartlett 
went there the other night, and that she saw Mrs. 
Champernowne hand John Hackdale a cheque?” 

“She did!” 

“Was Jane Pratt with you on Sunday night when 
you picked up a revolver in Mrs. Champernowne’s 
orchard ?” 

“Yes, she was! And she’s told you all this 
already, damn her!” said Simmons. “So what’s the 
use.” 

“You answer my questions, Hackdale! Where 
is that revolver?” 

“Safely put away—where no one but myself can 
find it,” growled Simmons. 

“All right!—you’ll have to produce it. Now 


3io 


THE SAFETY PIN 


then—do you know to whom that revolver belongs ?” 

Simmons withdrew his hands from his pockets, 
folded his arms, and tilting his sharp chin, stared 
at the ceiling. There was a spider, a big, fat spider 
up there; he watched it walk right across from one 
corner to another before he spoke. The three men 
watched him curiously. He brought his eyes to 
the level of their faces at last. 

“Yes, I do!” he said. 

“Whose is it, then?” asked Mellapont, sharply. 
“Come!” 

“It’s my brother’s, John Hackdale’s,” answered 
Simmons. “I knew it at once—that is, as soon 
as I turned a light on it. It has his initials scratched 
or cut on it. But I don’t see that that proves, or 
could prove that he shot Deane! Not it!” 

“Well?” said Mellapont. “Why doesn’t it—why 
shouldn’t it?” 

“He may have lent it to somebody,” suggested 
Simmons. “He may have sold it to somebody. 
What use was it to him?” 

“Where did he use to keep it?” asked Mellapont. 
“Do you know?” 

“Oh, I know! In a drawer, in his bedroom; 
under some linen.” 

“When did you see it last?” 

“Can’t say! Months ago.” 


MELLAPONT’S EXHIBIT 


3 ii 

Mellapont remained silent for a moment or two. 

“Do you remember anything about your brother’s 
movements on the night of the murder?” he asked. 
“A Monday night.” 

“I remember the night—fine—dry night,” replied 
Simmons, “but nothing particular about him. He 
was on special constable duty at that time and al¬ 
ways out late. It was generally one or two o’clock 
in the morning when he came in.” 

“Let me put a definite question to you, Hack- 
dale,” said Mellapont. “Have you been suspecting 
your brother?” 

“Not directly,” said Simmons. “I’ve thought he 
knew something about it. I was taken aback when 
I found his revolver in that orchard. No—I 
thought he might be accessory after the fact—I did 
think that!” 

“Let’s be frank,” suggested Mellapont. “Whom 
do you think of as the actual murderer of Deane? 
Come, now?” 

Simmons laughed. There was a note of con¬ 
fidence in that laugh, the significance of which was 
not lost on his companions. 

“Why, Mrs. Champernowne, of course!” he said. 
“Mrs. Champernowne!” 

“Your grounds?” asked Mellapont. “What are 
they?” 


312 


THE SAFETY PIN 


But Simmons shook his head. 

“Pm not going to give away my chances of that 
reward—” he began. 

“I’ve told you already you’re heartily welcome to 
Miss Pretty’s reward, and to her and her fortune!” 
interrupted Mellapont. “It’s up to you to convince 
her that you’re entitled to it—I shall do nothing 
against you. And this—now that you’ve been 
amenable and spoken—is between ourselves. What 
made you suspect Mrs. Champernowne ?” 

Simmons put out a long, thin finger, poking it 
through the air towards Palsford. 

“I reckon he knows!” he said, with a sardonic 
smile. “Mr. Palsford knows, well enough. You 
see, Mellapont, Shelmore sent me down to Normans- 
holt to look over some property which Sir Reville 
Childerstone has there. Now I knew—never mind 
how—that Deane had been at Normansholt, and 
had a picture post-card of a part of it, on which 
he’d marked a particular house. Well, that struck 
me as odd to mark one card out of hundreds! 
When I went to Normansholt, a chap named Swale, 
one of Mr. Palsford’s clerks, showed me round the 
town. I saw the house I’m speaking of, and Swale 
told me a romance concerning it. It had been 
tenanted some twenty-odd years ago by a Mr. and 
Mrs. Arradeane. The man made a mysterious dis- 


MELLAPONT’S EXHIBIT 


313 


appearance; the woman left the town. There was 
more—but I came back to Southernstowe convinced 
that this James Deane who came to the Chancellor 
was the James Arradeane who used to live at Nor- 
mansholt; that the Mrs. Arradeane of Normans- 
holt was our Mrs. Champernowne, and that she 
murdered him, her lawful husband, so that she 
could marry Sir Reville Childerstone!” 

“And you still think so?” suggested Mellapont. 

Simmons looked from one to the other of his 
listeners. 

“I should like to know who did, if she didn’t!” 
he said, meaningly. “Why did she pay Jim Bartlett 
hush-money?—that cheque she handed to John, in 
Bartlett’s presence, was for Bartlett, of course— 
though I guess you know more about that than I 
do, as you’ve been in touch with him. And why— 
if this is all in confidence—why, the very morning 
after the murder was discovered, did she give John 
a new post, worth more than twice, nearly thrice, 
what he was getting—why, but to keep his tongue 
still? She’s hushed things up all round!—for that 
reason. John knows a lot—a lot!” 

“You’re giving your brother away!” said Shel- 
more, speaking for the first time, and in tones of 
deep disgust. “You might keep his name—” 

“He said—in confidence,” retorted Simmons, 


314 


THE SAFETY PIN 


pointing to Mellapont. “And—every man for him¬ 
self! I’ve myself to think of. And I can do with 
that three thousands pounds reward. It’ll help me 
to a career.” 

The three men looked at each other. There was 
silence for a while—and it was Simmons who broke 
it. 

“I want to go,” he said abruptly. 

“A moment!” replied Mellapont. “That revolver ? 
You have it—in safety?” 

“Safe enough,” answered Simmons, grimly. “So 
safe that nobody could find it.” 

“You’ve no doubt about it being your brother’s?” 

“None!” 

Mellapont seemed to be considering some propo¬ 
sition that was suggesting itself to him in the secret 
recesses of his mind. Suddenly, rising to his feet, 
he took out his pocket-book, and producing from 
it a small package done up in tissue paper, slowly 
unfolded the wrappings, and turning to Simmons, 
showed him, before the other two, the fragment 
of broken cuff-link which he had once shown to 
Shelmore. 

“Do you know anything of that?” he asked, 
quietly. “Ever seen it before?” 

But even as he spoke he knew that Simmons had 
recognised the thing he was exhibiting. The colour 


MELLAPONT’S EXHIBIT 


3i5 


came and went in the clerk’s face; his lips parted; 
his eyes flashed; his long fingers began to work 
excitedly. 

“Good Lord!” he muttered. “Where—where did 
you get that?” 

“In the sand-pit, close by where Deane’s body 
was found!” answered Mellapont. “Do you know 
it?” 

Simmons suddenly clapped his hat on his head, 
and turned to the door. But before he had taken 
two steps he paused. 

“Stop here!” he said, with a queer eagerness. 
“Here—or be at your office, Mellapont. An hour 
—two hours, perhaps—and—and I’ll ring you up. 
I—I see the whole thing!—I know who did it! 
Good Heavens, to think—but—wait. ...” 

Before they could stop him, he had darted from 
the room, through the outer office, and was pound¬ 
ing down the stair. Mellapont, the broken cuff¬ 
link in his palm, turned, enquiringly to the other 
men. Pals ford spoke. 

“That chap knows!” he said, quietly. “He knows 
—at last!” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE ART OF ARRANGEMENT 

OIMMONS hastened across the street and hur¬ 
ried into the Chancellor Hotel. But instead 
of going straight to Miss Pretty’s private apart¬ 
ment, he turned aside to a quiet and snug smoking- 
room, reserved as a rule for commercial travellers. 
Just then, however, there were no commercial travel¬ 
lers to be seen there; such as were staying in the 
house were either lingering over the supper-table 
or gathered in the billiard-room. And Simmons 
made for the one writing-table in the room, and 
finding some blank note-paper there, sat down, re¬ 
flected a moment, and then quickly wrote out two 
documents, the wording identical in each case, save 
that in the second a convenient blank was left. 
With these neatly folded, and bestowed, one in the 
left and one in the right pockets of his coat, he 
sped upstairs and walked into Miss Pretty’s sitting- 
room without as much as a tap at the door. 

For the second time that evening, Miss Pretty 
316 


THE ART OF ARRANGEMENT 317 


let out a gasp of astonishment. But Simmons 
slipped his arm round her waist and kissed her— 
breathlessly. 

“All right—all right!” he said. “Me!—back 
again!” 

“What did those fellows want?” asked Miss 
Pretty. 

“Never mind them!” answered Simmons. “All 
bluff and bluster—trying to get things out of me. 
No good!—Pm a darned sight too clever for either 
police superintendents or country-town lawyers! 
You don’t know how clever I am—yet.” 

“I think you are clever!” murmured Miss Pretty. 
“Very clever!” 

“Ain’t I?” assented Simmons, with another kiss. 
“And I’m going to show you—and the whole town 
—how clever I am, this very night. Listen—don’t 
scream—don’t exclaim—don’t do anything but just 
listen. I’ve solved the mystery!” 

Miss Pretty, who was still within the encircling 
arm, twisted her slender figure round and stared, 
full face. 

“You—you don’t mean—” she began. 

“Steady!” said Simmons, warningly. “Now— 

I know who killed James Deane!” 

Miss Pretty gasped. And Simmons nodded, once, 
twice, thrice at her parted lips and dilated eyes. 


318 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“I know!” he repeated. “Dead certain! Nobody 
else knows. Nobody else could know. Nobody 
else ever could have found out. The culprit hasn’t 
the least idea that I know. All my work! Alone!” 

“Who is it?” whispered Miss Pretty. 

“No!” said Simmons. “Not yet! Mustn’t spoil 
things or run risks—even walls, especially hotel 
walls, have ears. Things to do yet—last arrange¬ 
ments—final plans. But before midnight—perhaps 
sooner—done! The whole town will ring with it 
to-morrow morning. And—you won’t forget that 
your Sim did it, will you?—worked and schemed 
and spent toilsome days and sleepless nights to—to 
succeed? You won’t?” 

“Of course I shan’t!” protested Miss Pretty. 
“And I do think you’re most amazingly clever, Sim! 

I do, really. That you should succeed where that 
big, fat, Mellapont—” 

“Pooh!” said Simmons. “Mellapont! Brains 
of a rabbit!—he’s no good—fool him, any time. 
But look here—the reward? You’ll take care it 
comes to me?” 

“Oh, of course!” asserted Miss Pretty. “It 
would be mean not to take care of that! Besides, 
how could I forget that it’s you?” 

“Angel!” exclaimed Simmons, rapturously. “But 
look here!” he continued, growing very grave. 


THE ART OF ARRANGEMENT 319 

Don t be afraid, but there’s—well, considerable 
danger in what I’ve got to do to-night—personal 
danger. I might get—” 

“Oh, don’t run any risks, Sim!” entreated Miss 
Pretty. “Don’t get yourself—” 

“Impossible to avoid risk in an affair of this 
sort,” said Simmons, sternly. “I’ll run ’em—for 
your sake! Do my best, of course, to avoid ’em— 
you bet! But still—the risk is there—queer com¬ 
pany I’ve got to go into. And in case anything 
happens—or that somebody else should chip in and 
say that he’s entitled before me, just—mere form, 
you know—just put your name to that paper, there’s 
a love!—and then I shall be safe. Due to me, that, 
you know, angel!” 

The angel would have stood on her head to oblige 
Simmons, with whom by that time she was fatu¬ 
ously in love, and she hastily scrawled her name 
to the first of Simmons’s two documents. She 
made no attempt to read it, but Simmons re-read 
it over her shoulder as she signed it with his foun¬ 
tain-pen, and he once again admired its neat word¬ 
ing: 

Simmons Hackdale having informed me that he 
has now found out who it was that shot James 
Deane and that he can produce undoubted proof 


320 


THE SAFETY PIN 


of the murderer’s guilt I hereby promise to pay the 
said Simmons Hackdale three thousand pounds as 
soon as he gives the guilty person into the hands 
of the Southernstowe police. 

“Please—please don’t—don’t get shot—or—or 
anything of that sort!” pleaded Miss Pretty, as 
Simmons refolded the signed document and put it 
safely away. “I don’t know where you’re going, but 
can’t you take somebody with you?” 

“Impossible!” said Simmons, still stern and im¬ 
movable. “Secret matters need secret treatment! 
Hope for the best, angel!—and look here, there’s 
just one thing you can do. You have, somewhere 
about”—here he assumed the air of great mystery 
which profoundly impressed Miss Pretty—“the 
dead man’s walking-stick! Give it to me!—I need 
it!” 

Miss Pretty drew away from him, shuddering. 
But she retreated into her bedroom, through a door 
in the corner—and as soon as she had gone, Sim¬ 
mons, glancing rapidly over the table by the fire, 
strewn with books, magazines, and newspapers, 
caught up a slim, faded volume and thrust it into 
an inner pocket. When Miss Pretty returned, he 
was standing with folded arms, a monument of 
resolution. 

“Here!” said Miss Pretty, faintly, holding out, 


THE ART OF ARRANGEMENT 321 

gingerly, a stout oak staff. “I—I was almost afraid 
to touch it!” 

Simmons took the stick, threw the other arm 
round Miss Pretty’s shoulders, and kissed her fore¬ 
head. He pulled his cap over his brows. 

“Now for it!” he said. 

The next instant he had left the room, and Miss 
Pretty, her heart fluttering and her pulses throbbing, 
went to the window and drawing the blind looked 
out on the gas-lighted street below. Simmons came 
into view for a second or two—then he vanished. 
As he went round the corner the great clock in the 
Cathedral struck ten heavy, booming strokes. 

Before the strokes died away, Simmons was half 
way up the street that led towards Ashenhurst 
House; very soon he was at the gates of that de¬ 
sirable residence. He opened them softly and stole 
into the grounds—stole in so quietly that he startled 
a man just within, who made a sudden bolt for the 
adjacent shrubbery. Simmons, who could not afford 
such expensive luxuries as fear or diffidence, made 
a spring after the retreating figure and caught its 
clothing. He dragged his captive into the feeble 
light of the lamp above the gates. 

“Hullo, Nicholson!” he exclaimed, recognising 
the plain-clothes man. “What’s your game?” 

“What’s yours?” retorted Nicholson, surlily, as 


3 2 2 


THE SAFETY PIN 


he released his arm from Simmons’s grip. 'That’s 
more like it!” 

“Pretty much the same as yours, I should think,” 
answered Simmons. Just then he caught sight of 
another man, half-hidden amongst the laurel bushes. 
“Oh!” he exclaimed, with a laugh. “Two of you, 
eh? I’ve a good idea of what you’re after, too. 
My brother John, eh, Nicholson?” 

“That’s our business!” growled Nicholson. “And 
if you’re going in there—” 

“I am going in there, and I shall be in there for 
a while, and then I’m coming out!” declared Sim¬ 
mons. “And there’s no need for you to be so dark 
and secret with me. I’ve just left Mellapont—and 
I know more than you do!” 

“We know nothing—except to keep an eye on 
—him!” said Nicholson, impressed by Simmons’s 
reference to the Superintendent, and nodding at 
the lighted house. “That’s all—we' followed him 
here.” 

“How long has he been in there?” enquired Sim¬ 
mons. 

“Ten minutes, maybe,” replied the plain-clothes 
man. 

“Anybody go in with him?” 

“No!” 

“Well, I’m going in,” said Simmons. “And 


THE ART OF ARRANGEMENT 323 

when I come out, I’ll very likely tell you something. 
There’s going to be big doings to-night, Nicholson. 
You’ll perhaps come in at them.” 

Without further parley he hastened up the drive 
to the front door. It was flanked by plain glass 
panels; through one of these Simmons made an in¬ 
spection of the hall inside. Empty!—not a soul 
to be seen—not even a glimpse of Jane Pratt’s black 
gown, smart apron and coquettish cap. He quietly 
opened the door, stole into the hall, and tiptoeing 
his way along made straight for Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s drawing-room: a second later and he was 
within and had shut the door behind him and turned, 
a finger raised warningly, on its occupants. 

Mrs. Champernowne sat in an easy chair by the 
hearth; John Hackdale stood near her, leaning 
against the mantelpiece. Simmons saw doubt, 
anxiety, perturbation on their faces; John started 
erect at sight of him, and Mrs. Champernowne 
frowned angrily. 

“What—” she began. “What—” 

“H’sh!” whispered Simmons, stealing softly 
across the thick carpet. “Do you know what’s 
outside?” He paused, to give dramatic effect 
to his inquiry. “I’ll tell you! A couple of 
detectives!” 

He saw Mrs. Champernowne flush, and John 


3 2 4 


THE SAFETY PIN 


start. But neither spoke, and Simmons, again mak¬ 
ing mysterious signs, went across the room and 
officiously drew blinds and curtains. 

“Anyway—plain-clothes men!” he said, coming 
back. “Nicholson and Burbidge! In the shrub¬ 
bery. Followed you, John! With a purpose, too. 
Look here!—it’s no use beating about the bush, 
Mrs. Champernowne—you and John may as well 
know how things stand. Fve just come from Mella- 
pont—been through it with him—hot time, I can 
assure you! But I got away—and hurried here, 
to warn you both.” 

“Warn us of—what?” demanded John. 

“Mellapont’s going to arrest both of you!” whis¬ 
pered Simmons, with a comprehensive wave of his 
thin fingers. “Both—on a charge of murder! 
That’s why I’m here. Also, it’s why these chaps 
are outside. House watched back and front. You’re 
up against it—both!” 

John Hackdale glanced at Mrs. Champernowne; 
Mrs. Champernowne was staring at Simmons. She 

began to turn and turn the rings on her fingers__ 

a sure sign, as John knew, of nervous agitation. 

“That’s—absurd!” said John at last in a voice 
that he himself recognised as strained and dry, 
“What evidence—” 

“Absurd nothing!” exclaimed Simmons. “You 


THE ART OP ARRANGEMENT 325 

don’t know all I know!—Mellapont’s been rather 
more than open with me. Look here! Your re¬ 
volver has been found—found in Mrs. Champer- 
nowne’s orchard! What do you make of that?” 

John started unmistakably. He felt rather than 
saw Mrs. Champernowne’s astonished eyes on him. 

“Then it was thrown there by somebody who 
stole it from me!” he declared. “I missed it— 
missed it to-night. I—” 

“There’s no use in all that,” said Simmons. “Do 
you think the police are going to believe that sort 
of stuff? It’s your revolver, and you were up and 
around here about the time that Deane was shot, 
after being seen with Mrs. Champernowne in these 
grounds. And Mellapont’s got it firmly into his 
head that either you or Mrs. Champernowne act¬ 
ually shot Deane, and that you’re partners and ac¬ 
cessories—and he’s going to arrest you—both! 
Then—however it goes—there will be a fine making 
public of—all sorts of things!” 

He looked meaningly at Mrs. Champernowne, 
and Mrs. Champernowne again turned to John 
Hackdale. John was pale and nervous: his eyes 
kept turning to the door; he looked as if he were 
listening intently. 

“Yes—any mistake!” said Simmons, interpreting' 
his thoughts. “But—I can stop it!” 


326 


THE SAFETY PIN 


The two listeners turned on him sharply, eager 
inquiry in their eyes. 

“You?” exclaimed John. “What—” 

“I!” answered Simmons. “I can stop it! Stop 
—everything!” 

“How?” demanded John. 

Simmons nodded first at one, then at the other. 

“I know who killed Deane!” he said. “Do you 
hear that? I know!” 

John drew a sudden sharp breath, and stepped 
nearer to his brother. 

“You—know?” he said. “Then—why didn’t 
you tell Mellapont? Why haven’t you told it be¬ 
fore, instead of—?” 

“That be damned!” retorted Simmons. “My 
business! Self first!—didn’t you teach me that? 
I’ve myself to think of! I didn’t tell before because 
I’ve only just learnt the exact truth this very eve¬ 
ning: I haven’t told Mellapont because—I want 
paying for my knowledge! Let Mrs. Champer- 
nowne there make it worth my while, and I’ll take 
those men outside away to put the handcuffs on 
the real culprit—” 

“And if she won’t?” said John, with a sneer. 

“Then I shall keep my knowledge to myself!” 
retorted Simmons. “But she will,” he continued, 
as he produced his second document and laid it be- 


THE ART OF ARRANGEMENT 327 

fore Mrs. Champernowne, “she will!—for her own 
sake. If I say nothing, you and she’ll be in the 
Southernstowe police cells before midnight; if I 
speak, you’re both safe. Let Mrs. Champernowne 
fill up that blank space there in her own handwrit¬ 
ing with the words two thousand pounds, and then 
sign the whole, and—I hand the guilty person over 
to Mellapont! If she won’t—silence!” 

“Extortion!” exclaimed John. “It’s—” 

“Never extorted anything from her yourself, did 
you?” retorted Simmons. “No!—of course not! 
And never let her be fleeced by Jim Bartlett?—no! 
Better fill up and sign, Mrs. Champernowne—it’ll 
pay you! When people want to draw a thick cur¬ 
tain over the past—or a slice of the past—they can 
afford to spend a bit, eh? Fill up—and sign!” 

Mrs. Champernowne obeyed him. And while 
John muttered something like a disgusted curse on 
his knavery, Simmons calmly folded the paper and 
turned to the door. 

“One word to both of you,” he said. “Don’t 
leave this house? Stop here, John—don’t you go 
out, Mrs. Champernowne. By midnight—before, 
indeed—I’ll send you word that James Deane’s 
murderer is safe within four walls! And then— 
you’ll breathe easier, and sleep easier than you’ve 
done for a good while, eh?” 


THE SAFETY PIN 


328 

He stole out again, fearful of meeting Jane 
Pratt, and rejoined Nicholson and his companion 
in the drive. Taking Nicholson by the arm, he led 
him aside and made a whispered communication— 
at the end of which the plain-clothes man jumped. 

“Good God, Mr. Simmons!” he exclaimed. 
“You don’t mean it?” 

“Fact!” said Simmons, coolly. “Now then, off 
to Mellapont and tell him, and insist on his doing 
just what Fve told you! Then—you see.” 

He left the two men outside Ashenhurst House 
and went home by a short cut across the top part 
of the city. Arrived in his private sitting-room, 
and leaving the door partly open, he turned the 
light on to the full, and getting out a bottle of 
whiskey, and a syphon of mineral water, and 
glasses, he mixed himself a drink, and lighting a 
cigarette, sat down to wait and to read the evening 
newspaper. 

Some time passed; at last he heard a heavy 
step on the stairs. And at that he rose and looked 
out of the half-open door to see who was coming 
up. Ebbitt appeared—home from his managerial 
duties at the Picture-House. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE GREEN BAY TREE 

in'BBITT’S gaze, going past Simmons into the 
lighted room fell upon the whiskey and the 
tumblers, and he laughed. 

“Hullo, laddie!” he exclaimed. “Having a night 
of it?” 

“Come in!” responded Simmons. “No!—just 

having a drink before bed time. Help yourself!” 

Ebbitt lounged slowly into the room, took off his 
big cloak and hat, unwound the white silk muffler 
from his neck, and again rubbing his hands together 
with the remark that it was getting precious cool o’ 
nights, proceeded to mix himself a stiff drink and 
to carry his tumbler to the easiest chair. 

“Well, here’s towards you!” he said, drinking 
and nodding at his host. “The best of ’em! 
Where’s John?” 

“Out!” answered Simmons. 

“Courting?” suggested Ebbitt with a leer. 

329 


330 


THE SAFETY PIN 


“Not that I know of,” said Simmons. “Never 
heard of it.” 

Ebbitt fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, brought 
out a cigar, and proceeded to light it. 

“If I’d been your brother John, laddie,” he re¬ 
marked presently, “I wouldn’t ha’ let an elderly 
roue like Sir Reville carry off the widow Cham- 
pernowne. I’d ha’ taken that vessel in for myself 
—good-looking fellow like John!” 

“Old enough to be his mother, she is!” said Sim¬ 
mons. “Guess she’s fifty!” 

“What’s that to do with it?” sneered Ebbitt. 
“Fifty! Lor’ save you, a woman’s just at her prime 
at fifty, now-a-days, if she’s taken care of herself 
—as that one has. Fine woman, Mrs. C.—and 
got the dibs, too. And there’s worse things than 
money in this world, Sim, my laddie—much 
worse!” 

“Ain’t things good at that show of yours?” 
asked Simmons. “Thought you were turning money 
away every night.” 

“Frequently happens that we do,” assented Eb¬ 
bitt, with an air of indifference. “But that doesn’t 
affect me, laddie. I’m a salaried man. So much 
a week—full or empty.” 

“Well, it’s a certainty, anyway,” said Simmons. 
“Better than being—well, a strolling player, eh?” 


THE GREEN BAY TREE 


33 i 


“Yes, I was that once,” replied Ebbitt, musingly. 
“Strolling? God, I should think so!—often with 
a half-clothed back and an empty belly! But Ed 
more fun out of those times, laddie, than I get out 
o’ these!” 

“Doubtful!” said Simmons. “Not me, anyhow! 
Give me a fixed position and money at the 
back of it: none of your haphazard business for 
me! Where did you do most of your strolling, 
then?” 

Ebbitt’s eyes grew dreamy. He took a pull at 
his tumbler, balanced it in his hand, and stared 
thoughtfully at the fire. 

“All over the place!” he answered. “Through 
the mill from the beginning. Eve seen it all. Eve 
played in a fit-up, and Eve played at the T. R., 
Drury Lane. Eve played Hamlet in a booth, and 
done a no-line, walk-on show to Henry Irving in 
the same part. I once had a benefit that fetched 
in three hundred pound, and Eve recited in a way- 
side inn and been glad of the hat-full of coppers 
I got for doing it. Experience, laddie!—and there 
was adventure in it. And now—now I wear a 
dress suit and an opera hat o’ nights, and super¬ 
intend—pictures! Pictures!—thrown on the screen 
out of a blinking magic-lantern! Bah!—give me 
living men and women and the human voice. If 


33 2 


THE SAFETY PIN 


you’d only known the men and women I’ve known 
—ah, we could act in my day!” 

“Must have known a lot of actors in your time,” 
suggested Simmons. 

“Crowds!—multitudes!” assented Ebbitt. “Good 
fellows!—dear boys!—gone, now, most of ’em. No 
such now-a-days—poor lot on the boards is there.” 

Simmons pushed the whiskey nearer to his guest. 
And as Ebbitt replenished his glass, his host glanced 
at the clock on the mantelpiece, which he had set 
by the City Hall time when he came in. 

“Actresses, too?” he said, as Ebbitt once more 
pledged him. “You’d know plenty of actresses?” 

“Aye, laddie, no end of ’em!” answered Ebbitt. 
“From way back in the ’sixties, when I started. 
Bless you—I’ve played with Madame Celeste— 
knew her well enough at the old Lyceum. Act¬ 
resses?—hundreds of ’em—good, bad, indifferent.” 

Simmons remained silent for a moment or two. 
He was keeping an eye on the clock and an ear on 
the stair outside. And as the minute hand of the 
clock pressed slowly forward he spoke again. 

“Ever know an actress called Nora le Geyt?” he 
asked quietly. 

Ebbitt lifted his face sharply from the glow of 
the hearth. A frown shot across its upper half, 
and his lips parted in something like a snarl. 


THE GREEN BAY TREE 


333 

“Nora le Geyt!” he repeated. “What the devil 
do you know about Nora le Geyt?” 

“Heard of her,” retorted Simmons, steadily. 
“Why not? Lots of actresses’ names are remem¬ 
bered—long afterwards.” 

Ebbitt continued to stare at him. His lips were 
still open, showing his teeth, and his eyes were 
suspicious. 

“Not likely that you’d ever hear of her!” he 
growled. “Where did you—a mere lad!—ever 
hear?” 

Simmons glanced again at the clock; listened 
again for a sound on the stair. He turned to his 
guest with a half-cynical, half-impudent laugh. 

“Lawyers—like me—get to know a lot, Ebbitt,” 
he retorted. “We’re never surprised at anything. 
I know a good deal about Nora le Geyt. She mar¬ 
ried a man named Arradeane, James Arradeane, 
who subsequently called himself James Deane —the 
James Deane who was murdered in the sand-pit 
behind Ashenhurst House. There,” he continued, 
pulling out and opening at its title-page the book 
which he had picked up from Miss Pretty’s table, 
“there’s a book of Nora le Geyt’s, with her auto¬ 
graph—recognise it? But of course you do!—I 
think you were an old flame of Nora’s, and that 
she jilted you for the other man, and that—” he 


334 


THE SAFETY PIN 


gave a swift glance at the clock and strained his 
ear towards the door—“and that—that,” he went 
on, bending forward with a steady stare at Ebbitt’s 
startled eyes, “was—why you shot him!” 

A dead silence fell on the room—save for the 
slow ticking of the clock. It was broken by Ebbitt’s 
movements. He set down his glass and rose, star¬ 
ing at Simmons, and as he stared he backed towards 
the door. But he got out a word—one. 

“What—” 

“What, nothing!” exclaimed Simmons, disdain¬ 
fully. He knew that the door was open, though 
but a mere crack, purposely left so by himself when 
he asked his visitor in, and he raised his voice. 
“What, indeed? Shall I tell you what I know, 
Ebbitt? You recognised Deane as the man who’d 
supplanted you that night he went to your show; 
you resolved to have your revenge, and you came 
home and stole John’s revolver out of an open 
drawer in the next room and went out with it; 
you had an idea that Deane would go to Ashen- 
hurst House that night to see his relatives there— 
you knew all about it!—and you huftg about for 
him. You did see him; you got him, somehow, 
into that sand-pit and shot him, and flung the re¬ 
volver into Mrs. Champernowne’s orchard—where 
it’s been found—I found it. And something else 


THE GREEN BAY TREE 


335 


has been found—you dropped the enamel facing 
of a cuff-link in that sand-pit, Ebbitt, and that’s 
been picked up. Why, man, you’re wearing the 
rest of that cuff-link just now—look at it! And 
it’s all up, Ebbitt—the police know everything— 
and what do you say to that, what do you—?” 

Ebbitt’s eyes dropped sharply from his accuser’s 
face to the right-hand wrist of his finely-laundered 
shirt. He looked for a second at the damaged 
cuff-link, and he muttered something under his 
breath. Simmons laughed—and Ebbitt’s hand stole 
suddenly and quickly round to his hip. Within the 
second and before Simmons’s laughter had died, 
the accuser found himself staring into a levelled 
revolver. 

“No need to steal or borrow a revolver, now!” 
said Ebbitt. “This is mine, and this time—you!” 

It was a big cry, and a shriek of agonised fear 
that Simmons let out as he leaped back behind the 
table, thrusting out his hands. 

“No!” he shouted. “Ebbitt!—put it away— 
away!—Oh—my God! Mellapont!—Nicholson—” 

The revolver spoke sharply, and Simmons with 
a groan toppled back, clutching at anything and 
nothing. And then, as the police, with Mellapont 
at their head, came tumbling up the last few stairs 
and into the smoke-obscured room, Ebbitt turned 


336 


THE SAFETY PIN 


his weapon upon himself and without a sigh or a 
cry went out of the world. 

According to all the moral principles and prece¬ 
dents, as laid down in melodrama, Simmons ought 
to have been picked up dead, shot through the 
heart. Maybe his heart was so tough that the 
bullet glanced off it; maybe it was so small that 
it didn’t extend over the aura at which Ebbitt 
aimed. Anyway, instead of being mortally wound¬ 
ed, Simmons was found to be shot through the 
shoulder—a nasty and unpleasant injury, but not 
one that was likely to deprive the community of 
his services. He was unconscious when Mellapont 
and his men laid hands on him; when he regained 
consciousness he found himself in a private ward 
in the Southernstowe Infirmary, with doctors and 
nurses in attendance. And within forty-eight hours 
Miss Pretty was admitted to his bedside, and she 
hung over him, and wept tears on his red poll, and 
told him, in whispers, that he was a hero—her hero. 

There are queer people everywhere in this world, 
and Southernstowe was not without its percentage 
of them. The Simmons Hackdale cult, engendered 
by Miss Pretty, spread and flourished. Truth and 
fable were mingled in it, as in all cults. While 
Simmons lay in his white bed, men in bar-parlours 


THE GREEN BAY TREE 


337 


magnified him. All alone, unaided, young Hack- 
dale had quietly, slowly, persistently, ferreted out 
the truth about the sand-pit murder, and, bold and 
unafraid, had tackled the murderer single-handed 
and nearly lost his life in ministering to justice. 
A fine, sharp, resourceful young fellow! said the 
wise-acres of pot and pipe, and certain sure to go far, 
—yes, even to being Lord Chancellor. Brains!— 
yes, almost more brains in his little finger than all 
the slow-witted solicitors and pesky policemen in 
the city or the county—didn’t he do, quietly and 
unostentatiously, what they couldn’t do with all the 
machinery of the Law? True it was!—and well 
deserving was that there smart young fellow of 
the rewards and what not. In Simmons’s case, 
skill undoubtedly won favour. 

He recovered, slowly at first—more rapidly when, 
beneath his pillow, he placed the cheques which duly 
came in from Mrs. Champernowne and Miss Pretty. 
Miss Pretty gave him hers to play with, as she 
put it—it seemed silly, she whispered to him, dur¬ 
ing one of her twice-a-day visits, to give him this 
mere bit of the whole which was presently to be 
his—said whole consisting of herself, her hand, 
her heart, her fortune. But Simmons considered 
a cheque of any sort as a good soothing plaster, 
and he slept better after the receipt of this and the 


338 


THE SAFETY PIN 


other. And in the end, thanks to careful doctor¬ 
ing, nursing and feeding, he arose and went forth. 
Everybody wanted to shake hands with him, and 
did: Alderman Bultitude, ex-Mayor, thanked him, 
publicly, in High Street, for clearing the city of a 
stain on its fair name. On the strength of every¬ 
thing, and in view of his approaching union with 
Miss Pretty and emigration to her tin-mine, Sim¬ 
mons took more pretentious rooms and ordered 
several new suits of clothes from his tailors. In 
one of these, a smart frock suit, set off by a silk 
hat, he took Miss Pretty to the afternoon service 
at Southernstowe Cathedral one Sunday afternoon 
soon after his return to convalescence. The Canon- 
in-Residence selected as the text of his sermon the 
35th verse of the 37th Psalm: I have seen the 
wicked in great power and spreading himself like 
a green bay tree. He discoursed upon this with 
great clarity and force and with a wealth of illus¬ 
tration in which reflections and animadversions 
upon such things as deceit, craft, subtlety, hypoc¬ 
risy, lying, and selfishness were plentiful and 
pointed. Had Simmons ever been taught to search 
his heart and examine its conscience, he might have 
felt uneasy under that sermon. But he was quite 
comfortable, and well satisfied—very largely be¬ 
cause there were plenty of vacant chairs around 


THE GREEN BAY TREE 


339 


him in the nave, and he was able to place his new 
silk hat on one of them, and thereby ensure its not 
being kicked by his own or anybody else’s feet— 
and he ceased not from spreading himself when he 
went forth of the venerable fabric. He considered 
himself a very smart and clever fellow, and Miss 
Pretty was of his opinion. The truth was that 
neither Simmons nor his Cynthia had any sense 
of humour. They will probably do very well. 





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G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 






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Recent Fiction of_ Importance 

TETHERSTONES By Ethel M. Dell 

The story of a beautiful young girl, facing life alone, who 
finds her life intertwined with that of a strange “ brute of a 
man.” 

LEW TYLER’S WIVES By Wallace Irwin 

A discerning study of a genial, pleasure-loving hail fellow 
well met, and the havoc he causes in the lives of the women 
who love him. 

THE SUN FIELD By Heywood Broun 

A novel of modern marriage and some of its problems, 
sketched against a background of baseball, and written with 
the author’s characteristic humor and charm. 

RIPPLING RUBY By J. S. Fletcher 

Another Fletcher mystery story, this time concerning a Derby 
prize-winner, and a mysterious murdering Chinaman. 

THE LUCK OF THE KID 

By Ridgwell Cullum 

A tale of pioneer life on the Yukon-Alaska frontier, by a 
master of stories of the “ bad lands ” and the silent places. 

THE SEVEN HILLS By Meade Minnigerode 

The conventions of an older generation clash with the un¬ 
shackled freedom of the new ; and an old Eastern aristocracy 
falls before the aggressive immigrant. 

THE UNGROWN-UPS By “ Rita ” 

The story, in informal diary style, of Philistia Hornbeam, 
from her thirteenth year until she found her great adventure. 


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